■NRLF 


SELECTED   POEMS 


FROM 


MICHELANGELO   BUONARROTI 


So  stood  this  Angel o 
Four  hundred  years  ago; 

So  grandly  still  he  stands 
Mid  lesser  worlds  of  Art, 
Colossal  and  apart, 
Like  Memnon  breathing  songs  across  the  desert  sands. 

C.  P.  C RANCH. 


SELECTED    POEMS 


FROM 


Michelangelo  Buonarroti 

WLxt\)   <£ran*latt<m* 
FROM     VARIOUS    SOURCES 

*'Ei  dice  cose,  voi  dite  parole" 

EDITED     BY 

EDNAH    D.   CHENEY 

AUTHOR    OF    "GLEANINGS    IN    THE    FIELDS    OF    ART" 


+***<       :>. ::' 


•  •     •••»•->•»,• 


BOSTON 
LEE    AND    SHEPARD,    PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1885, 
By  Ednah  D.  Cheney. 


Max 


TO 


SETH    W.     CHENEY, 


WHO   FIRST  MADE   ME   KNOW  AND    LOVE  THE  POEMS  OF  MICHELANGELO 
AS   THE   EXPRESSION   OF   HIS  OWN   THOUGHT, 

THIS    WORK, 

THE    FRUIT    OF    THE    SEED    WHICH    HE    SOWED, 


fs  focbertntlg  IBtfjicatett. 

E.  D.  C. 


255105 


PKEFACE. 


I  HAVE  long  wished  to  introduce  the  poems  of 
Michelangelo  to  the  public,  especially  to  young 
readers  who,  possessing  a  slight  knowledge  of  Italian, 
would  shrink  from  the  difficulties  of  the  text  without 
assistance.  For  this  reason  I  give  the  Italian  according 
to  the  best  authority,  with  an  English  translation,  which 
will  be  interesting  in  itself,  and  also  afford  the  young 
student  the  needed  help  in  catching  the  thought  of  the 
original,  which  cannot  always  be  obtained  by  a  literal 
rendering  of  the  text.  The  first  reading  is  always  given, 
unless  otherwise  indicated.  I  have  used  Guasti's  valuable 
edition  as  my  authority  for  the  Italian. 

As  the  difficulty  of  translation  is  great,  I  have  not  so 
much  attempted  to  make  new  versions  as  to  gather  from 
every  quarter  those  which  would  give  the  reader  the  best 
idea  of  the  original.  I  have  drawn  less  freely  from  Mr. 
Symonds's  book  than  from  others,  not  from  any  want  of 
appreciation  of  his  valuable  work,  but  because  it  is  still 
in  the  market,  and  I  hope  my  readers  will  be  led  to  study 
it  themselves.  My  own  translations  are  given  either 
because  no  adequate  one  could  be  found,  or  because, 
being  my  own,  they  were  dear  to  me,  and  represented  my 
thought  of  the  poem  more  nearly  than  those  even  of 
greater  literary  merit.  I  have  never  altered  a  word  of  a 
translation  as  published  by  its  author,  believing  this  to 
be  simple  justice,  but  have  indicated  in  the  notes  those 


viii  PREFACE. 

passages  in  which  I  think  he  has  not  given  the  true 
meanings,  —  generally  in  consequence  of  having  only  an 
imperfect  copy  of  the  original. 

When  I  first  contemplated  this  work,  I  thought  that 
the  poems  differed  so  greatly  in  merit  that  I  could  easily 
select  a  few  and  leave  the  rest ;  but  a  closer  study  has 
revealed  so  much  meaning  in  all,  that  I  can  assure  the 
Italian  scholar  he  will  still  find  much  wealth  of  thought 
and  beauty  in  those  which  I  have  not  here  given. 

My  valued  friends  Mr.  John  S.  Dwight,  Mrs.  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  Mr.  F.  B.  Sanborn,  and  Miss  Eva  Channing 
have  kindly  consented  to  enrich  my  book  with  new  trans- 
lations. I  feel  deeply  grateful  to  them  for  thus  allowing 
me  to  entwine  their  rare  flowers  in  my  garland,  and  I  ex- 
pect the  gratitude  of  my  readers  for  calling  forth  these 
precious  additions  to  our  English  translations. 

I  will  say  nothing  of  the  difficulty  of  this  task  except 
to  quote  the  words  of  Wordsworth,  whose  sonnets  have 
become  treasures  of  English  literature. 

"  I  mentioned  Michelangelo's  poetry,"  says  Mr.  Words- 
worth in  one  of  his  letters,  "  to  you-  some  time  ago ;  it  is  the 
most  difficult  to  construe  I  ever  met  with,  but  just  what  you 
would  expect  from  such  a  man,  showing  abundantly  how  con- 
versant his  soul  was  with  great  things.  I  can  translate,  and 
have  translated,  two  books  of  Ariosto,  at  the  rate  nearly  of  one 
hundred  lines  a  day;  but  so  much  meaning  has  been  put  by 
Michelangelo  into  so  little  room,  and  that  meaning  sometimes 
so  excellent  in  itself,  that  I  found  the  difficulty  of  translating 
him  insurmountable.  I  attempted  at  least  fifteen  of  the  sonnets, 
but  could  not  anywhere  succeed.  I  have  sent  you  the  only  one 
I  was  able  to  finish ;  it  is  far  from  being  the  best  or  most  char- 
acteristic, but  the  others  were  too  much  for  me." 

Forest  Hill  Street,  E.  D.  C. 

December,  IS84. 


CONTENTS. 


Introduction __.•■. A x"i 

Epigrams 2 

Thirteen  Epitaphs  for  Cecchino  Bracci.  Translated  by  E.  D.  C.   6 


JHalmgals. 

III.1 Translated  by  Southey  12 

IV "  "  Harford  14 

V.      TO  VlTTORIA  COLONNA*      •  "  '*     HaRFORD  16 

VI.     On  the  Death  of  Vittoria  Colonna. 

Translated  by  Taylor  18 

VII.    .    .    ...     .    .    .    .    .    .      .     "  ,     .  "   E.  D.  C  20 

VIII.    ...........  "         M   Harford  22 

XII.    .    ,    <, .  "  "   E.  C.      .  24 

XV.    ....    . "       ,  "   Taylor  26 

XVIII.    .    .    . .  «  «   Taylor  28 

XXII "  "   E,  D.  C  30 

XXIII "  "   E,  C.  32 

XXIV "  "   Taylor  34 

XXV. "  "   Harford  36 

XXXIX "  "   Harford  38 

XLIV. <*          «   E.  C.      .  40 

LIII .  "  "   Harford  42 

1  These  numbers  correspond  to  those  in  Guasti's  edition. 


CONTENTS. 


JfiatrrtgalS   (Continued). 

LXXVIII Translated  by  Taylor  . 

LXXIX «         u    Harford 

LXXXII "         "   J.  W.  H. 

LXXXIII "         "   E.D.  C. 

XCIII "         "   E.C.      . 


page 
44 
46 

48 
50 
52 


Sonnets* 


XII. 
XIII. 
XIV. 

xv. 

XVII. 

xx. 

XXI. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 

xxv. 

XXVIII. 

XXX. 

XXXIL 

XXXVIII. 

XL. 

XLIII. 


I.    To  Dante 

II.    To  Dante 

IV 

V.    To  Giovanni  da  Pistoja. 
the  Sistine  Chapel, 
to  vlttoria  colonna. 
to  vlttoria  colonna. 

To    VlTTORIA    COLONNA. 


Translated 

by 

E.  D.  C. 

54 

u 

tt 

E.  D.  C 

56 

it 

tt 

Symonds 

58 

On  the 

Painting  op 

Translated 

by 

Symonds 

60 

tt 

Symonds 

62 

tt 

E.  D.  C. 

64 

tt 

Symonds 

66 

tt 

Harford 

68 

tt 

Taylor  . 

70 

tt 

Symonds 

72 

" 

i< 

Symonds 

74 

«• 

tt 

E.  C.     . 

76 

tt 

tt 

Taylor  . 

78 

a 

it 

Taylor  . 

80 

tt 

Harford 

82 

tt 

Taylor  . 

84 

tt 

tt 

E.  D.  C. 

86 

tt 

Symonds 

88 

U 

tt 

Taylor  . 

90 

tt 

tt 

F.  B.  S. . 

92 

CONTENTS. 


XI 


JSOtttUtg   (Continued). 

XLIV Translated  by  F.  B.  S. 

L. 

LI. 

LIL 
LIII. 
L1V. 

LV. 
LVI. 
LIX. 

LX. 
LXII. 


LXV. 

LXVII. 

LXX. 

LXXII. 

LXXIII. 

LXXV. 

LXXVII. 

LXXXI. 

LXXXIX. 


"         "    Symonds     . 

"  "   Taylor  .    . 

"   Wordsworth 

"         «   E.  D.  C.      . 

"  "    Harford    . 

"  "    Symonds     . 

"  "    Symonds     . 

"  ■*    Harford    . 

"  u    Wordsworth 

On  the  Death  of  Yittoria  Colonna. 

Translated  by  E.  C.      .     . 


To  Giorgio  Vasari. 


"  Hazlitt     .    . 

"  Harford    .     . 

"  Harford    .    . 

"  E.  D.  C.      .    . 

"  Wordsworth 

"  J.  S.  D.  .     .    , 

"  Harford    .    , 

u  Wordsworth 

(Imperfect.) 

lt    Wordsworth 

(Imperfect.) 


PAGE 

94 


98 
100 
102 
104 
106 
108 
110 
112 

114 
116 
118 
120 
122 
124 
126 
128 
130 

132 


Canzonet  III.  (Verse  1.)  Translated  by  Harford  ....  134 
Stanza  II.  To  his  Lady.  (Verse  1.)  Translated  by  E.  C.  .  136 
Triplets  on  the  Death  of  his  Father.  Translated  by  E.D.C.    138 


Notes 1*9 

Appendix 159 


INTRODUCTION. 


Michelangelo  Buonarroti.     Born  March  6,  1474  ;  died 
February  18,  1564. 

TO  the  triple  crown  of  Sculptor,  Painter,  and  Architect, 
to  which  Michelangelo's  claim  is  undisputed,  must  be 
added  that  of  Poet,  which  has  been  accorded  to  him  by 
the  finest  critics  of  his  own  time  and  of  ours ;  yet  to  many 
readers  of  scholarship  and  taste  his  poems  are  still  almost 
unknown.  This  neglect  is  partly  due  to  the  intrinsic 
difficulty  in  the  poems  themselves,  which  usually  treat  of 
lofty  themes  in  condensed  language,  and  partly  to  the 
fact  that  not  until  twenty-one  years  ago,  were  his  works 
properly  edited  and  published  in  Italy. \  These  poems]" 
contain  such  wealth  of  thought  and  feeling,  touching 
upon  the  deepest  questions  of  philosophy  and  the  tender- 
est  experiences  of  the  human  heart,  that  he  who  once 
tastes  of  their  sweetness  will  never  cease  to  thirst  for  this 
fountain  of  refreshment  and  strength.  The  epitaphs  on  * 
Cecchino  Bracci  Fiorentino,  for  instance,  may,  on  the  first 
reading,  seem  quaint  and  formal,  reiterating  trite  thoughts 
of  death  and  immortality ;  but  a  fuller  acquaintance  with 
them  recognizes  the  expression  of  every  form  and  though^ 
of  grief,  and  they  lie  in  the  memory  as  a  treasure-house 
of  sympathetic  utterance  which  matches  the  changing 
phases  of   one's  own   experience. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

Condivi,  Michelangelo's  personal  friend,  says :  "  He  de- 
voted himself  to  poetry  rather  for  his  own  delight  than 
because  he  made  a  profession  of  it,  always  depreciating 
himself  and  accusing  his  ignorance." 

His  poems  were  scribbled  upon  the  backs  of  old  letters, 
drawings,  or  other  chance  papers ;  sometimes  copied  and 
/sent  to  his  friends,  but  as  often  left  unfinished  and  un- 
known. ,  Yet  the  corrections  and  various  readings  of  many 
of  the  sonnets  show  that  he  did  give  them  much  thought, 
and  was  careful  in  his  choice  of  words  and  form.  Although 
jvrged  by  his  friends,  he  never  consented  to  make  any 
collection  of  his  poems  during  his  lifetime ;  yet  in  such 
esteem  were  they  held  that  Varchi  delivered  a  full 
commentary  on  the  sonnet  beginning  "Non  ha  l'ottimo 
artista  alcun  concetto,"  before  the  Florentine  Academy; 
analyzing  it  line  by  line,  and  bestowing  upon  it  unbounded 
praise.  |But  even  more  precious  is  the  brief  eulogium  of 
Berni,  "Others  say  words,  but  he  speaks  things,'^ — which 
must  have  pleased  him  far  more  than  the  lavish  adulation 
of  the  sycophant  Aretino,  who  "wished  to  place  every 
word  of  Michelangelo  in  an  urn  of  emerald."  /Nor  was 
popular  recognition  wholly  wanting.  Three,  at  least,  of 
his  madrigals  were  set  to  music  by  distinguished  compos- 1 
ers,  and  were  favorites  with  the  people,  who  had  only 
lately  found  good  melody  married  to  anything  but  the 
hymns  of  the  Church.  But  through  all  the  sixteenth 
century  only  a  few  of  his  sonnets  and  madrigals  were 
to  be  found.  These  were  in  a  collection  of  verses  in  the 
Life  of  Michelangelo  by  Vasari,  and  in  Varchi' s  lectures. 
Mario  Giudicci  gave  two  fine  lectures  upon  the  first  edition 
of  his  works. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  the 
French  taste  then  prevalent  led  the  hearts  of  Italians 


INTRODUCTION.  xv 

somewhat  away  from  Dante  and  Michelangelo,  and  the 
poems  of  the  latter  did  not  escape  abarp  criticism. 

-  Four  years  after  Michelangelo's  de$th,  a  son  was  born  to 
his  favorite  nephew,  Lionardo,  and  named  for  his  great 
ancestor.  Although  this  child  became  a  well-known 
writer,  the  world  honors  him  most  for  his  devotion  to  the 
memory  of  the  great  artist.  He  built  a  noble  gallery, 
which  he  adorned  with  collections  of  his  uncle's  works, 
and  pictures  of  the  scenes  of  his  life.  He  also  recognized^ 
the  value  of  the  poems,  and  for  the  first  time  collected 
the  scattered  leaves  and  carefully  revised  and  edited 
them. 

But,  unfortunately,  his  care  was  not  satisfied  with  as- 
certaining what  Michelangelo  really  wrote,  and  giving  it 
to  the  public;  but  he  thought  his  duty  required  him  to 
make  his  poems  acceptable  to  a  newer  and  more  enlight- 
ened age.  He  therefore  reduced  the  poems  to  the  level  of 
his  own  taste ;  filling  up  gaps  in  the  verses,  adding  others, 
softening  harsh  expressions,  and  omitting  many  strong 
peculiarities.  He  seems  to  have  feared  their  free  expres- 
sion in  religion ;  and,  as  Guasti  says,  "  he  kept  an  eye  on 
the  fiscal  auditor  and  the  theologian  of  Santa  Croce."  This 
work,  published  in  1623,  was  the  basis  of  all  the  editions 
and  translations  for  more  than  two  hundred  years.  Yet 
even  in  this  garbled  form  the  poems  attracted  the  atten- 
tion and  won  the  hearts  of  scholars  and  lovers  of  poetry, 
so  that  several  editions  were  published  in  Italy,  and 
translations  made  in  Latin,  German,  French,  and  English. 
In  1858  the  Counsellor  Cosimo  Buonarroti,  with  patriotic 
generosity,  gave  to  the  city  of  Florence  all  the  treasures 
received  from  his  great  ancestor,  including  many  of  the 
original  manuscripts  of  the  poems.  Signor  Guasti,  having 
access  to  these  remains,  and  also  to  other  manuscripts 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

preserved  in  the  Vatican,  has  prepared  and  published  an 
edition  of  the  poems  which  for  clear  arrangement  of  the 
text  and  for  thoroughness  and  beauty  of  execution  is 
eminently  satisfactory.  He  has  given  every  aid  needed 
by  a  foreigner  moderately  acquainted  with  the  Italian 
language  to  read  intelligently  these  masterpieces  of 
thought;  while  he  has  carefully  preserved  all  the  various 
readings  of  the  originals,  giving  first  the  one  to  which 
he  himself  assigns  the  preference  as  probably  the  final 
form  satisfactory  to  the  poet  himself. 

The  English  translators,  Wordsworth,  Taylor,  and  Har- 
ford, did  not  have  the  inestimable  benefit  of  his  work,  and 
yet  they  have  enriched  our  language  with  noble  versions 
of  some  of  the  poems.  Since  Guasti's  work  was  com- 
pleted, Mr.  John  Addington  Symonds  has  published  a  full 
set  of  translations  of  the  sonnets.  His  work  is  of  the 
greatest  value  to  English  students.  He  is  as  faithful  to 
the  text  as  the  exigencies  of  translation  will  permit,  and 
has  given  the  historical  sonnets  with  great  spirit  and  en- 
ergy. His  versions  differ  in  merit,  it  may  be,  from  the 
greater  obscurity  of  the  original,  or  from  less  sympathy  on 
his  part  with  the  thought  of  the  poem ;  and  a  harsh  ex- 
pression sometimes  destroys  the  harmony  of  the  poetic 
diction.  It  is  often  difficult  to  render  a  terse  Italian  ex- 
pression into  English  without  using  a  homely  word  which 
approaches  to  coarseness. 
/'The  modern  reader  misses  in  these  poems  the  constant 

I  reference  to  Nature's  outward  works  which  forms  so  large 
a  part  of  the  poetry  of  our  own  timeY  Michelangelo 
seldom  alludes  to  special  appearances  in  Nature,  and  then 

^only  slightly,  to  illustrate  an  abstract  thought;  yet  those 
argue  superficially  who  believe  him  to  have  been  insen- 
sible to  natural  beauty.     The  sonnets  on  Night  show  his 


INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

feeling  for  one  of  the  most  mysterious  and  exciting  phases 
of  Nature,  and  the  thirty-eighth  sonnet  refers  to  the  com- 
mon beauties  of  fount  and  rill  and  wave  with  freshness  n£ 
tender  feeling.  We  cannot  accept  the  judgment  of  even  so 
accomplished  a  critic  "as  Pater,  that  "the  world  of  natural 
things  has  almost  no  existence  for  him."  He  wrote  a 
long  pastoral  poem  in  which  he  celebrates  the  peace  and 
happiness  of  a  shepherd's  life.  It  begins  simply,  and  even 
playfully;  but  as  he  proceeds  he  quits  this  unfamiliar 
style  for  metaphysical  speculation,  and  for  a  weird  and 
powerful  allegory,  difficult  to  interpret.  This  poem  re- 
calls the  style  of  Poliziano,  as  his  madrigals  and  sonnets 
remind  one  sometimes  of  Petrarch,  but  more  often  of 
Dante.1 

The  facts  of  Michelangelo's  life  may  be  so  easily  learned 
from  the  many  biographies,  that  it  is  not  necessary  to 
repeat  them  here,  except  as  they  are  alluded  to  in  the 
poems.  Few  of  his  early  writings  remain,  and  it  is  not! 
easy  to  assign  the  date  of  all  his  love  poems.  Probably 
many  are  lost ;  most  of  those  which  we  possess  were  writ! 
ten  after  his  sixtieth  year,  and  given  to  various  friends. 
Among  these  were  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  the  well-known 
artist;  Luigi  del  Kiccio,  of  whom  Michelangelo  said  that 
he  had  the  spirit  of  poesy ;  Donato  Giannotti,2  whose 
criticisms  he  valued  greatly ;  and  Tommaso  dei  Cavalieri, 
a  young  man  of  talent  and  beauty.  His  friends  were  very1  / 
anxious  to  obtain  these  gems  of  poetry,  and  often  sent 
him  some  little  present  of  fruit  or  game,  which  he  play- 
fully acknowledges  in  a  note  appended  to  a  sonnet  or 
madrigal.  The  greater  part  of  his  poems  are  referred  by 
Pater  to  the  period  between  1542  and  1547,  —  the  latter 
being  the  year  of  Vittoria  Colonna's  death,  —  or  from  his 

1  See  Appendix,  p.  161  (4).  2  Ibid.  p.  160  (2). 


xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

J  sixty-eighth  to  his  seventy-third  year.  We  have,  however,  the 
sonnet  to  Giorgio  Vasari,  dated  1554,  and  the  lines  to  Car- 
dinal Beccadelli,  1556,  when  he  was  eighty-two  years  old. 

{i  .  The  personal  relation  of  greatest  importance  in  this 
connection  is  with  his  beautiful  and  truly  noble  friend 
[Vittoria  Colonna.1  It  is  probable  that  Michelangelo 
jfirst  met  this  congenial  spirit  in  1536  or  1538.  She  was 
already  a  widow,  whose  poetic  muse  was  employed  in  a 
constant  tribute  of  love  and  grief  to  the  memory  of  her 
husband.  She  was  the  idol  of  her  own  sex  in  Italy,  who 
adored  her  as  a  saint  and  sought  her  counsels  in  doubt 
and  distress.  She  was  indeed  admired  by  men  of  all 
classes ;  but  she  preserved  the  purity  and  modesty  of  her 
spirit,  and  was  only  prevented  by  the  commands  of  the 
Pope  from  seeking  the  retirement  of  a  cloister.  The  high 
themes  of  Patriotism,  Philosophy,  Art,  and  Keligion  en- 
gaged her  thoughts,  as  they  did  those  of  Michelangelo; 
and  on  them  they  exchanged  letters  and  poems,  and  he 
dedicated  to  her  some  of  his  noblest  works  in  sculpture. 
He  lived  to  mourn  over  her  grave,  and  henceforth  to  find 
life  robbed  of  its  sweetest  joy.  The  burden  of  old  age 
and  approaching  death,  with  a  deep  sense  of  his  own  im- 
perfections, lay  heavy  upon  his  heart,  and  found  expres- 
sion in  those  sonnets  so  full  of  deep  struggle  and  suffering. 
Fully  to  understand  them  requires  an  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  heart  of  man,  as  well  as  of  the  circumstances  of  the 
age  and  country  which  surrounded  him. 

It  is  common  to  speak  of  this  relation  as  one  of  love, 
and  expressions  in  the  sonnets  referring  to  his  passion  are 
taken  literally.  V  But  to  understand  his  words,  we  must 
remember  the  Platonic  philosophy  which  filled  his  mind 
and  gave  color  to  all  his  thoughts.    This  high  and  dignified 

1  See  Appendix,  p.  159  (1). 


INTRODUCTION.  xix 

friendship  was  undoubtedly  made  sweet  and  tender  by[ 
the  delicate  reverence  which  every  true  man  feels  for 
woman;  but  it  wasj: ree_  f  rom  the  folly  of  passion,  which 
would  have  been  alike  unbecoming  his  high  tone  of 
thought  and  her  unswerving  devotion  to  her  husband's 
memory.  Such  seems  to  have  been  the  opinion  of  his 
contemporaries,  who  say  "  he  was  enamoured  of  the  divine 
spirit  of  Vittoria  Colonna." 

In  the  early  part  of  their  acquaintance,  he  wrote  to 
Tommaso  dei  Cavalieri  some  poems  which  are  supposed 
to  have  covert  reference  to  Vittoria.  It  is  possible  that  he 
may  thus  have  spoken  to  this  friend  before  he  dared  to 
address  her  personally ;  but  the  whole  tone  of  their  inter- 
course is  frank,  friendly,  and  thoughtful.  Patriotism,  Love, 
Art,  and  Eeligion  are  the  themes  of  his  verse,  and  in  all  of 
them  he  struggled  with  passionate  longings  and  bitter  re- 
grets. The  city  of  his  birth  was  degraded  and  enslaved ; 
and  in  the  visible  Church,  which  he  never  forsook,  he  had 
been  obliged  to  recognize  the  foe  of  his  country.  We  know 
nothing  of  the  outward  history  of  his  love ;  but  that  he 
had  felt  the  shock  and  recoil  of  passion,  and  that  he  had 
hungered  and  thirsted  for  affection,  is  but  too  evident. 
And  yet  there  is  no  personal  allusion  or  recognition  of  a 
want  of  the  natural  domestic  ties  dear  to  the  heart :  all  is 
veiled  in  dim,  solemn  imagery  which  hides  even  while  it 
reveals.1 

Michelangelo's   philosophy,  based   upon   Platonism,   is  J 
pure  idealism.     Human  life,  all  mortal  forms,  are  but  the  ' 
outward  expression  of  spiritual  life.     He  never  rests  in 
the  outward  and  material,  but  sees  it  only  as  now  conceal- 1 
ing,  now  revealing,  the  inward  idea,  — 

"  The  more  the  marble  wastes,  the  more  the  statue  grows." 
1  See  Appendix,  p.  162  (5). 


xx  INTRODUCTION. 

■  Death  is  a  constant  theme ;  but  it  is  never  a  final  end  — 
always  a  step  to  higher  life.  He  feels  deep  grief  when 
it  bears  away  his  beloved  ones,  but  he  recognizes  it  as  a 

I  sure  friend  which  is  to  end  all  sorrows :  "  It  could  defend 
ojie  from  all  other  miseries,  even  those  of  love."  This 
philosophy 1  was  blended  with  his  religious  ideas,  and  the 
influences  of  the  newly  revived  love  of  antiquity  and  of 
Christian  teachings  are  both  apparent  in  his  poems.  It 
is  therefore  possible  to  draw  very  varying  inferences 
from  his  expressions  in  regard  to  his  religious  convictions. 
The  more  definite  allusions  to  Christian  theology  in  his 
later  poems  may  be  attributed  to  the  influence  of  his 
friends  Vittoria  Colonna  and  the  Cardinal  Beccadelli; 
while  the  boldness  and  freedom  of  his  thought  in  the 
poem  on  the  death  of  his  father  recalls  his  early  admira- 
tion for  the  prophet  Savonarola. 

That  Michelangelo  was  truly  an  idealist  in  Art  is  evi- 
dent :  it  is  not  the  outward  form,  but  the  inward  image, 
that  he  is  ever  seeking.  The  Beautiful  is  always  an  image 
of  the  Divine,  and  the  only  reason  for  loving  it  in  outward 
form  is  that  it  brings  us  near  to  the  eternal  fountain  of 
Love.  So  closely  were  Keligion,  Art,  and  Love  blended  in 
his  thought  that  it  is  sometimes  impossible  to  tell  to 
which  he  refers  in  his  poems.  The  remorse  which  often 
oppresses  him  for  the  false  love  which  has  deluded  him  is 
that  keen  sense  of  unworthiness  which  haunts  every  sen- 
sitive soul  worshipping  the  ideal,  and  by  no  means  implies 
any  moral  fault  in  his  life.  His  contemporaries,  especially 
Condivi,  bear  emphatic  testimony  to  the  temperance  and 
purity  of  his  thought,  speech,  and  life.     His  love  of  poetry 

1  John  Edward  Taylor  has  given  a  full  analysis  of  Michelangelo's  phi- 
losophy in  his  admirable  book  "Michelangelo  considered  as  a  Philosophic 
Foet." 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

was  fostered,  if  not  awakened,  by  his  early  residence  in 
Bologna  with  Aldovrandi,  who  delighted  in  his  Tuscan 
accent,  and  often  engaged  him  to  read  to  him  from 
Petrarch,  Dante,  and  Boccaccio.  How  highly  he  rever- 
enced the  great  poet  of  his  country  is  shown  by  his  noble 
sonnets  to  Dante,  and  by  his  illustrating  the  Divina 
Commedia  with  designs  which  —  alas  for  us  !  —  are  for- 
ever lost. 

But  no  biography  gives  us  so  intimate  an  acquaintance 
with  the  heart  and  life  of  this  man  as  the  poems,  which 
were  the  delight,  solace,  and  relief  of  his  lonely  days.  The 
many  different  readings  show  that  they  were  dear  to  him ; 
and  we  can  often  trace  his  efforts  to  give  the  exact  shade 
of  thought  which  he  longed  to  express.  They  prove  how 
utterly  superficial  is  the  judgment  which  denies  to  him 
tenderness  and  piety,  and  the  most  intense  longing  for  the 
love  and  communion  of  his  fellow-beings;  yet  too  often j 
solitude  and  loneliness  were  his  lot,  —  how  keenly  felt,  is 
shown  in  these  poetic  revelations. 

Life  was  very  serious  to  him  ;  and  in  an  age  so  luxurious 
and  frivolous,  solitude  seemed  the  only  fitting  companion- 
ship. And  yet  Donato  Giannotti,  who  knew  him  well, 
makes  him  say,  in  his  Dialogues :  "  Know  that  I  am  the 
man  the  most  inclined  to  love  persons  that  ever  was  bornl 
in  any  time.  Whenever  I  see  any  one  who  has  any  virtuej  / 
or  shows  any  quickness  of  mind,  or  can  do  or  say  anything 
more  fittingly  than  others,  I  am  constrained  to  fall  in  love 
with  him ;  and  I  give  myself  up  as  a  prey  to  him,  so  that 
I  am  no  more  my  own,  but  all  his."1  Does  not  this  exA 
plain  many  passages  in  his  poems  where  he  complains  or 
the  empire  of  love  over  him  ?  His  sympathies  were  sq 
profound  and  intense  that  he  felt  obliged  to  hold  himself 

1  See  Appendix,  p.  160  (2). 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

[aloof  from  men,  lest  his  own  power  of  free  creation  should 
'be  lost. 

Greatness  and  goodness  are  nearly  allied ;  the  more 
closely  we  study  the  life  of  this  artist,  whose  colossal  in- 
tellect and  stern  will  give  him  rank  among  the  very 
highest  names  in  history,  the  more  do  we  find  the  purity 
and  truth  of  his  moral  nature  and  the  depth  of  his  affec- 
tions ;  and  we  learn  anew  the  great  truth  that  intellectual 
development  alone  may  make  monsters,  but  only  when 
heart  and  head  work  together  can  we  have  a  true  artist. 


ENGLISH  TRANSLATIONS  OF  MICHELANGELO'S 
POEMS. 

Life  of  Michelangelo.  By  Riccardo  Duppa.  First  edition,  London, 
1806  ;  second,  London,  1807;  third,  London,  1816. 

Michelangelo  considered  as  a  Philosophic  Poet.  With  translations. 
By  John  Edward  Taylor.  London,  1840  ;  second  edition,  Lon- 
don, 1852. 

The  Life  of  M.  A.  Buonarroti,  with  translations  of  many  of  his  poems 
and  letters.  Also  memoirs  of  Savonarola,  Raphael,  and  Vittoria 
Colonna.     By  John  S.  Harford.    London,  1857. 

The  Sonnets  of  Michelangelo  Buonarroti  and  Tommaso  Campanella. 
By  John  Addington  Symonds.    London,  1878. 


SELECTED    POEMS. 


EPIGRAMMI. 


I. 
SOPEA   LA  NOTTE  DEL  BUONAREOTO.   / 


DI   GIOVANNI   STROZZI. 


La  NOTTE,  che  tu  vedi  in  s%  dolci  atti 
Dormir,  fu  da  un  Angdo  scolpita 
In  questo  sasso,  e  per  die  dor  me  ha  vita : 
Destala,  se  not  credi,  e  parleratti. 


RISPOSTA   DEL   BUONARROTO. 


Caro  m'  e  '1  sonno,  e  piu  1'  esser  di  sasso, 
Mentre  che  '1  danno  e  la  vergogna  dura : 
Non  veder,  non  sentir,  m'  e  gran  ventura ; 
Per6  non  mi  destar,  deh  !  parla  basso. 


EPIGRAMS. 


I. 
ON  THE   STATUE   OF   NIGHT. 

BY   GIOVANNI   STROZZI. 

Night  !  ivhom  you  see  in  soft  repose 
An  angel  sculptured,  yet  life  glows 
Where  sleep  exists :  speak  thou  ;  for  she, 
Spite  of  thy  doubts,  will  answer  thee. 


Harford. 


REPLY  OF  BUONARROTO. 

'T  is  sweet  to  sleep,  still  more  of  stone  to  be, 
While  sin  and  shame  and  injury  remain : 
To  see  not,  hear  not,  is  my  greatest  gain ; 
So  pray  speak  low,  and  do  not  waken  me. 

E.  C. 


EPIGRAMMI. 


IV. 

Chi  non  vuol  delle  foglie, 
Non  ci  venga  di  maggio. 


V.    / 


I 


Amore  e  un  concetto  di  bellezza 
Immaginata,  cui  sta  dentro  al  core, 
Arnica  di  virtu te  e  gentilezza. 


EPIGRAMS. 


IV. 


(On  the  front  of  a  gate. ) 


Who  not  leaves  would  bear  away, 
Must  not  come  to  us  in  May. 


V. 


Love  is  a  conceit  of  Beauty : 
He  who  bears  it  in  his  heart 
Is  the  gentle  friend  of  Duty. 

E.  D.  C. 


EPITAFFI 

PER 

CECCHINO   BEACCI   FIOEENTINO, 

MORTO   IN   ROMA   NEL  DICIASSETTESIMO   ANNO,   L' VIII   GENNAIO 
MDXLIIII. 

MANDATI   A   LUIGI   DEL   RICCIO. 
II. 

Deh  serbi,  s'  e  di  me  pietate  alcuna, 
Che  qui  son  ehiuso  e  dal  mondo  disciolto, 
Le  lacrime  a  bagniarsi  il  petto  e  1  volto 
Per  chi  resta  suggetto  alia  fortuna. 

IV. 

Non  volse  morte  non  ancider  senza 
L'  arme  degli  anni  e  de'  superchi  giorni 
La  belta  che  qui  giace,  accio  c'  or  torni 
Al  ciel  con  la  non  persa  sua  presenza. 

VII. 

Qui  son  sepulto,  e  poco  innanzi  nato 
Ero :  e  son  quello  al  qual  f u  presta  e  cruda 
La  morte  si,  che  Talma  di  me  nuda 
S'  accorge  a  pena  aver  cangiato  stato. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   FORTY-EIGHT 
EPITAPHS 

FOR 

CECCHINO   BRACCI   FIORENTINO, 

WHO   DIED   IN   ROME   IN   HIS    SEVENTEENTH   YEAR,   JAN.    8,  1544. 

II. 

Ah  !  keep  your  tears,  if  pity  fills  your  eyes 
For  me,  who  here  released  from  earth  have  place ; 
Keep  them  to  bathe  the  weary  breast  and  face 
Of  him  who  subject  low  to  earthly  fortune  lies. 

IV. 

Death  wisned  to  strike,  without  the  heavier  blow 
Of  weary  years  or  overweight  of  days, 
The  beauty  that  lies  here,  that  seen  in  heavenly  rays 
.We  still  his  earthly  countenance  might  know. 

VII. 

Here  am  I  buried,  —  I  who,  born  but  late, 
Stern  death  hath  smitten  with  so  quick  a  blow, 
That  scarcely  doth  my  unclothed  spirit  know 
That  it  hath  changed  its  early  heavenly  state. 


EPITAFFI. 


IX. 


L'  alma  di  dentro  di  fuor  non  vedea, 
Come  noi,  il  volto  chiuso  in  questo  avello : 
Che  se  nel  ciel  non  e  albergo  si  bello, 
Trarnela  morte  gia  ma'  non  potea. 

XII. 

Qui  son  morto  creduto ;  e  per  conforto 
Del  mondo  vissi,  e  con  mille  alme  in  seno 
Di  veri  amanti ;  adunche,  a  venir  meno, 
Per  tormen'  una  sola  non  son  morto. 

XIV. 

Qui  vuol  mie  sorte  c'  anzi  tempo  i'  dorma : 
Ne  son  gia  morto :  e  ben  c'  albergo  cangi, 
Eesto  in  te  vivo,  c'  or  mi  vedi  e  piangi ; 
Se  T  an  nell'  altro  amante  si  trasforma. 

XV. 

Se  qui  cent'  anni  t'  ban  tolto  due  ore, 
Un  lustro  e  f orza  clie  1'  eterno  inganni !  — 
.  No,  che  'n  un  giorno  e  vissuto  cent'  anni 
Colui  che  'n  quello  il  tutto  inipara,  e  muore. 

XVI. 

Gran  ventura  qui  morto  esser  mi  veggio : 
Tal  dota  ebbi  dal  cielo  anzi  che  veglio ; 
Che,  non  possendo  al  mondo  darmi  meglio, 
Ogni  altro  che  la  morte  era  '1  mie  peggio. 


EPITAPHS. 


IX. 


The  soul  while  in  the  body  could  not  see, 
Like  us,  the  form  enshrouded  in  this  tomb ; 
But  if  Heaven  granteth  not  as  fair  a  room, 
Death  had  not  gained  the  power  to  set  it  free. 

XII. 

They  do  believe  me  dead,  —  I  who  still  shed 
Delight  on  all  the  world,  living  in  thousand  souls 
In  breasts  of  lovers  true.     No  death  controls, 
Taking  one  soul  alone.     I  am  not  dead. 

XIV. 

Here  fate  has  willed  me  ere  my  time  to  sleep : 
I  am  not  dead,  though  changed  my  dwelling  be ; 
While  thou  dost  look  and  weep,  I  rest  alone  in  thee, 
Since  lovers  each  the  other's  image  keep. 

XV. 

If  years  to  kill,  the  power  in  moments  lies, 
A  lustre  might  eternal  life  betray ! 
Ah  !  no ;  he  lives  a  hundred  years  in  single  day, 
Who  in  that  time  learns  everything,  and  dies. 

XVI. 

To  lie  here  dead,  I  deem  a  blest  estate ; 

Such  grace  from  Heaven  I  have,  to  grow  not  old : 

The  best  of  earthly  gifts  to  me  all  told, 

Aught  else  than  death  would  give  me  harder  fate. 


10  EPITAFFI. 


XVIII. 


Se  fussin,  perch'  i'  viva  un'  altra  volta, 
Gli  altru'  piaiiti  a  quest'  ossa  came  e  sangue ; 
Sarie  spietato  per  pieta  chi  langue, 
Per  rilegar  lor  V  alma  in  ciel  disciolta. 

XX. 

S'  t  fu'  gia  vivo,  tu  sol,  pietra,  il  sai, 
Che  qui  mi  serri :  e  s'  alcun  mi  ricorda, 
Gli  par  sogniar :  si  morte  e  presta  e'  ngorda, 
Che  quel  ch'  e  stato,  non  par  f usse  mai. 

XXIII. 

De'  Bracci  naqqui ;  e  dopo  '1  primo  pianto, 
Picciol  tempo  il  sol  vider  gli  occhi  miei. 
Qui  son  per  sempre ;  ne  per  men  vorrei, 
S'  i'  resto  vivo  in  quel  che  m'  amo  tanto. 

XXXV. 

A  la  terra  la  terra,  e  V  alma  al  cielo 
Qui  reso  ha  morte.     A  chi  morto  ancor  m'  ama 
Ha  dato  in  guardia  mie  bellezza  e  fama, 
Ch'  eterni  in  pietra  il  mie  terrestre  velo. 

XLIII. 

F  fu'  Cecchin  mortale,  e  or  son  divo : 
Poco  ebbi  '1  mondo,  e  per  sempre  il  ciel  godo. 
Di  si  bel  cambio  e  di  morte  mi  lodo, 
Che  molti  morti,  e  me  par  tori  vivo. 


EPITAPHS.  11 

XVIII. 

If  so  it  were,  that  life  might  be  regained, 
Tears  clothe  these  bones  with  living  flesh  and  blood, 
Ah !  cruel  would  he  be,  who  deemed  it  for  my  good 
To  bind  again  my  soul,  in  Heaven  unchained. 


XX. 


' 


That  I  once  lived,  thou  stone  alone  dost  ween, 
Who  loek'st  me  here :  if  one  remembers  me, 
He  seems  to  dream ;  death  grasps  so  greedily, 
That  what  has  passed  seems  never  to  have  been. 

XXIII. 

A  Bracci  I  was  born,  and  after  birth  below 
But  little  time  mine  eyes  might  see  the  sun. 
Here  am  I  now  forever.     Life  is  won, 
If  I  remain  alive  in  him  who  loved  me  so. 

XXXV. 

Death  has  given  earth  to  earth,  to  Heaven  my  soul. 
To  him  who  loves  me  yet  in  death  the  same, 
Is  given  to  guard  my  beauty  and  my  fame ; 
This  stone  forever  keeps  my  earthly  whole. 

XLIII. 

I  WAS  Cecchino,  now  Divine  I  live : 
Short  time  the  world  I  had,  but  Heaven  now  is  mine. 
For  such  a  fair  exchange,  to  Death  I  praise  assign, 
Who  many  dead,  but  me  brought  forth  alive. 

E.  D.  C 


MADRIGALI. 


III. 


A  LUIGI  DEL  EICCIO. 

Non  sempre  al  mondo  e  si  pregiato  e  caro 

Quel  che  molti  contenta, 

Che  non  sie  'lcun  che  senta, 

Quel  ch'  e  lor  dolce,  spesse  volte  amaro. 
II  buon  gusto  e  si  raro, 

Ch'  a  forza  al  vulgo  cede, 

Allor  che  dentro  di  se  stesso  gode. 

Ond'  io,  perdendo,  imparo 

Quel  che  di  fuor  non  vede 

Chi  T  alma  attrista  e'  suo'  sospir  non  ode. 
.  II  mondo  e  cieco,  e  di  suo'  gradi  o  lode 

Piu  giova  a  chi  piu  scarso  esser  ne  suole  : 

Come  sferza  che  'nsegnia,  e  parte  duole. 


MADRIGALS. 


III. 

TO   LUIGI  DEL   EICCIO. 

Ill  hath  he  chosen  his  part  who  seeks  to  please 
The  worthless  world,  —  ill  hath  he  chosen  his  part, 
For  often  must  he  wear  the  look  of  ease 

When  grief  is  in  his  heart ; 
And  often  in  his  hours  of  happier  feeling 
With  sorrow  must  his  countenance  be  hung, 
And  ever  his  own  better  thoughts  concealing, 
Must  he  in  stupid  Grandeur's  praise  be  loud, 
And  to  the  errors  of  the  ignorant  crowd 

Assent  with  lying  tongue. 
Thus  much  would  I  conceal  that  none  should  know 
What  secret  cause  I  have  for  silent  woe; 
And,  taught  by  many  a  melancholy  proof 
That  those  whom  Fortune  favors  it  pollutes, 
I,  from  the  blind  and  faithless  world  aloof, 
Nor  fear  its  envy,  nor  desire  its  praise, 
But  choose  my  path  through  solitary  ways. 

SOUTHET. 


14  MADRIGALL 

IV. 

(SEC0NDA  LEZIONE.) 

Perch'  e  troppo  molesta, 
Ancor  che  dolce  sia, 
Quella  merce  che  1'  alma  legar  suole ; 
Mie  liberta  di  questa 
Vostr'  alta  cortesia, 

Piu  che  d'  un  furto,  si  lamenta  e  duole. 
E  com'  occhio  nel  sole 
Disgrega  suo  virtu,  ch'  esser  dovrebbe 
Di  maggior  luce,  s'  a  veder  ne  sprona ; 
Cosi  1  desir  non  vuole 
Zoppa  la  grazia  in  me,  che  da  vo'  crebbe. 
Che  '1  poco  al  troppo  spesso  s'  abandona, 
Ne  questo  a  quel  perdona  : 
C  amor  vuol  sol  gli  amici  (onde  son  rari) 
Di  fortuna  e  virtu  simili  e  pari.     . 


MADRIGALS.  15 

IV. 

(second  reading.) 

Lady,  I  trust  it  is  not  pride, 

But  obligations  so  allied 

To  favor  that  I  seem  to  see 

In  your  exalted  courtesy 

Infringement  on  my  liberty. 

Oh !  rather  injure  me,  than  bind 

Such  fetters  on  my  free-born  mind : 

Since  the  sun's  radiance  on  the  eye 

Shining  in  unblenched  majesty, 

Should  heighten,  not  o'erwhelm,  the  sight, 

But  dazzles  by  excess  of  light, 

On  me  thus  acts  your  presence  bright ; 

It  charms,  and  yet  its  potent  ray 

Unnerves  my  reason's  wonted  sway : 

Small  virtue,  when  its  path  is  crost 

By  higher  far,  absorbed,  is  lost : 

They  who  too  much  bestow  confound ; 

With  such  there  is  no  common  ground  ; 

Therefore  (though  rarely  to  be  found) 

Love  wills  that  friends  should  equal  be 

In  virtue  and  in  quality. 

Harford. 


16  MADRIGALI. 


V. 
A  VITTOEIA  COLONNA, 

MARCHESANA   DI   PESCARA. 

Ora  in  sul  destro,  ora  in  sul  manco  piede 
Variando,  cerco  della  mia  salute  : 
Fra  '1  vizio  e  la  virtute 
II  cor  confuso  mi  travaglia  e  stanca ; 
Come  chi  1  ciel  non  vede, 
Che  per  ogni  sentier  si  perde,  e  manca. 
Porgo  la  carta  bianca 
A'  vostri  sacri  inchiostri, 
Ch'  amor  mi  sganni,  e  pieta  1  ver  ne  scriva 
Che  T  alma  da  se  franca 
Non  pieghi  a  gli  error  nostri 
Mio  breve  resto,  e  che  men  cieco  viva. 
Chieggio  a  voi,  alta  e  diva 
Donna,  saper  se  'n  ciel  men  grado  tiene 
1/  umil  peccato  che  '1  superchio  bene. 


MADRIGALS.  J  7 


V. 
TO  YITTOEIA   COLONNA, 

MARCHIONESS   OF   PESCARA. 

Midst  endless  doubts,  shifting  from  right  to  left, 

How  my  salvation  to  secure  I  seek, 

And  still  'twixt  vice  and  virtue  balancing, 

My  heart  confused  weighs  down  and  wearies  me,  — 

As  one  who,  having  lost  the  light  of  Heaven, 

Bewildered  strays,  whatever  path  he  takes  ; 

I,  Lady,  to  your  sacred  penmanship 

Present  the  blank  page  of  my  troubled  mind, 

That  you,  in  dissipation  of  my  doubts, 

May  on  it  write  how  my  benighted  soul 

Of  its  desired  end  may  not  so  fail 

As  to  incur  at  length  a  fatal  fall : 

Be  you  the  writer  who  have  taught  me  how 

To  tread  by  fairest  paths  the  way  to  Heaven. 

Harford. 


18  MADBIGALI. 

VI. 

IN  MORTE  DI  VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

[1547.] 

Per  non  s'  avere  a  ripigliar  da  tanti 
Quell'  insieme  belta,  che  piu  non  era, 
In  donna  alta  e  sincera 
Prestata  fu  sott'  un  candido  velo : 
Ch'  a  risquoter  da  quanti 
Al  mondo  son,  mal  si  rimborsa  il  cielo. 
Ora  in  un  breve  anelo, 
Anzi  in  un  punto,  Dio 
Dal  mondo  poco  accorto 
Se  T  ha  ripresa,  e  tolta  agli  occhi  nostri. 
Ne  metter  puo  in  oblio, 
Benche  1  corpo  sia  morto, 
I  suo'  dolci  leggiadri  e  sacri  inchiostri. 
Crudel  pieta,  qui  mostri, 
Se  quanto  a  questa,  il  ciel  prestava  a  i  brutti, 
S'  or  per  morte  il  rivuol,  morremo  or  tutti. 


MADRIGALS. 


VI. 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  VITTOEIA  COLONNA. 

[1547.] 

Pure  and  unsullied  beauty  Heaven  lent 

Unto  one  noble,  lofty  fair  alone, 

Beneath  a  spotless  veil,  that  when  through  death 

Keclaimed,  it  should  not  have  to  leave  so  many. 

If  Heaven  indeed  had  shared  it  among  all 

That  mortal  are,  it  scarce  could  have  withdrawn 

It  back,  and  re-enriched  its  treasury. 

Heaven  has  reta'en  it  from  this  mortal  goddess 

(To  call  her  so),  and  borne  it  from  our  eyes ; 

Yet  the  sweet,  beautiful,  and  holy  verse 

Cannot  so  soon  into  oblivion  pass, 

Although  the  mortal  be  removed  by  death. 

But  Pity,  merciless,  appears  to  us 

To  show  that  if  to  each  one  Heaven  had  given 

The  beauty  of  this  fair  one  to  partake, 

We  should  be  all  obliged  to  suffer  death, 

That  Heaven  might  repossess  it  of  its  own. 

Taylor. 


20  MADRIGALI. 


VII. 


Per  fido  esemplo  alia  mia  vocazione 
Nel  parto  mi  fu  data  la  bellezza, 
Che  d'  ambo  1'  arti  m'  e  lucerna  e  specchio. 
S'  altro  si  pensa,  e  falsa  opinione. 
Questo  sol  T  occhio  porta  a  quella  altezza 
Ch'  a  pingere  e  scolpir  qui  m'  apparecchio. 

S'  e  giudizii  temerari  e  sciocchi 
Al  senso  tiran  la  belta,  che  muove 
E  porta  al  cielo  ogni  intelletto  sano ; 
Dal  mortale  al  divin  non  vanno  gli  occhi 
Infermi,  e  fermi  sempre  pur  la  dove 
Ascender  senza  grazia  e  pensier  vano. 


MADRIGALS.  21 


VII. 

To  bind  me  faithful  to  my  calling  high, 
By  birth  was  given  me  beauty's  light, 
Lantern  and  mirror  of  two  noble  arts ; 
And  other  faith  is  but  a  falsity. 
This  bears  the  soul  alone  to  its  proud  height ; 
To  paint,  to  sculpture,  this  all  strength  imparts. 
And  other  judgments  foolish  are  and  blind, 
Which  draw  from  sense  the  beauty  that  can  move, 
And  bear  to  heaven  each  heart  with  wisdom  sane. 
No  road  divine  our  eyes  infirm  may  find ; 
The  mortal  may  not  from  that  world  remove 
Whence  without  grace  to  hope  to  rise  is  vain. 

E.  D.  C. 


22  MADRIGALI. 


VIII. 

Gli  occhi  miei  vaghi  delle  cose  belle, 
E  1'  alma  insieme  della  sua  salute, 
Non  hanno  altra  virtute 
Ch'  ascenda  al  ciel,  che  mirar  tutte  quelle. 
Dalle  piu  alte  stelle 
Discende  uno  splendore, 
Che  1  desir  tira  a  quelle ; 
E  qui  si  chiama  amore. 
Ne  altro  ha  gentil  core, 
Che  T  innamori  e  arda,  e  che  '1  consigli, 
Ch'  un  volto  che  ne  gli  occhi  lor  somigli. 


MADRIGALS.  23 


Gift) 


My  eyes,  which  love  to  gaze  on  beauteous  things, 
Act  on  my  soul,  which  pants  for  heavenly  light, 
Until  I  almost  seem  endued  with  wings, 
'Neath  Beauty's  smile,  for  a  supernal  flight. 
From  loftiest  stars  shoots  down  a  radiance  all  their  own, 

Drawing  the  soul  above  ; 

And  such  we  say  is  Love. 

For  nought  can  so  control, 

Charm,  penetrate  the  soul, 
Or  counsel  it  in  monitory  guise, 
As  a  sweet  face  set  off  by  starlit  eyes. 

Harford. 


24  MADRIGALL 


XII. 

Si  come  per  levar,  donna,  si  pone 
In  pietra  alpestra  e  dura 
Una  viva  figura, 

Che  la  piii  crescie  u'  piii  la  pietra  scema ; 
Tal  alcun'  opre  buone, 
Per  1'  alma  che  pur  trema, 
Cela  il  superchio  della  propria  came 
Co  1'  inculta  sua  cruda  e  dura  scorza. 
Tu  pur  dalle  mie  streme 
Parti  puo'  sol  levarne  ; 
Ch'  in  me  non  e  di  me  voler  ne  forza. 


MADRIGALS.  25 


XII. 


As,  Lady,  when  we  hew  away 

The  rugged  outer  stone, 

A  living  form  is  shown, 
Which,  as  the  marble  wastes,  grows  more  defined; 
So  does  our  fleshly  hull  of  clay, 
That  harsh  and  rude  and  savage  rind, 
Conceal  the  impulses  of  right 
Of  the  weak  soul,  which  trembles  still. 

Thou  only  canst  unbind 

This  veil  which  hides  my  inner  light ; 

For  I  alone  have  neither  strength  nor  will. 

E.  C. 


26  MADRIGALI. 


XV. 

Beati,  voi  che  su  nel  ciel  godete 

Le  lacrime  che  '1  mondo  non  ristora, 

Favvi  amor  guerra  ancora, 

0  pur  per  morte  liberi  ne  siete  ? 
La  nostra  eterna  quiete, 

Fuor  d'  ogni  tempo,  e  priva 

D'  invidia  amando,  e  d'  angosciosi  pianti. 
Dunche  a  mal  pro  ch'  i'  viva 

Convien,  come  vedete, 

Per  amare  e  servire  in  dolor  tanti. 

Se  '1  cielo  e  degli  amanti 

Amico,  e  '1  mondo  ingrato 

Amando,  a  che  son  nato  ? 

A  viver  molto  ?    E  questo  mi  spaventa : 

Che  1  poco  e  troppo  a  chi  ben  serve  e  stenta. 


MADRIGALS.  27 


XV. 


Oh  !  blessed  ye  who  find  in  Heaven  the  joy, 
The  recompense  of  tears,  earth  cannot  yield ! 
Tell  me,  has  Love  still  power  over  you, 
Or  are  ye  freed  by  death  from  his  constraint  ? 
Th'  eternal  rest  to  which  we  shall  return 
When  time  has  ceased  to  be,  is  a  pure  love, 
Deprived  of  envy,  loosed  from  sorrowing. 
Then  is  my  greatest  burden  still  to  live, 
If  whilst  I  love  such  sorrows  must  be  mine. 
If  Heaven 's  indeed  the  friend  of  those  who  love, 
The  world  their  cruel  and  ungrateful  foe, 
Oh  !  wherefore  was  I  born  with  such  a  love  ? 
To  live  long  years  ?     'T  is  this  appalleth  me  : 
Few  are  too  long  for  him  who  serveth  well. 

Taylor. 


28  MADRIGALI. 


XVIII. 

S'  egli  e  che  1  buon  desio 
Porti  dal  mondo  a  Dio 
Alcuna  cosa  bella, 
Sol  la  mie  donna  e  quella, 
A  chi  ha  gli  occhi  fatti  com'  ho  io. 
Ogni  altra  cosa  oblio, 
E  sol  di  tant'  ho  cura. 
Non  e  gran  maraviglia, 
S'  io  1'  amo  e  bramo  e  chiamo  a  tutte  1'  ore : 
N'  e  proprio  valor  mio, 
Se  1'  alma  per  natura 
S'  appoggia  a  chi  somiglia 
Ne  gli  occhi  gli  occhi,  ond'  ella  scende  fore; 
Se  sente  il  primo  Amore 
Come  suo  fin,  per  quel  qua  questa  onora : 
Ch'  amar  die  '1  servo  ch'  el  signore  adora. 


MADRIGALS.  29 


XVIII.l 

v 

If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing 
Raises  the  pure  and  just  desire  of  man 
From  earth  to  God,  the  eternal  fount  of  all, 
Such  I  believe  my  love ;  for  as  in  her 
So  fair,  in  whom  I  all  besides  forget, 
I  view  the  gentle  work  of  her  Creator, 
I  have  no  care  for  any  other  thing 
Whilst  thus  I  love.     Nor  is  it  marvellous, 
Since  the  effect  is  not  of  my  own  power, 
If  the  soul  doth  by  nature,  tempted  forth, 

Enamoured  through  the  eyes, 
Repose  upon  the  eyes,  which  it  resembleth, 
And  through  them  riseth  to  the  primal  love, 
As  to  its  end,  and  honors  in  admiring ; 
For  who  adores  the  Maker  needs  must  love  his  work. 

Taylor. 


30  MADRIGALL 


XXII. 

Da  maggior  luce  e  da  piu  chiara  stella 

La  notte  il  ciel  le  sue  da  lunge  accende : 

Te  sol,  presso  a  te,  rende 

Ogni  or  piu.  bella  ogni  cosa  men  bella. 
Qual  cor  piu  questa  o  quella 

A  pieta  muove  e  sprona, 

C  ogni  or  ch'  i'  ardo,  almen  non  s'  aggiacc'  egli  ? 

Chi,  senza  aver,  ti  dona 

Vaga  e  gentil  persona 

E  1  volto  e  gli  occhi  e'  biondi  e  be'  capegli ; 

Dunche  contra  te  quegli 

Ben  fuggi,  e  me  con  essi ; 

Se  '1  bello  infra'  non  begli 

Belta  cresce  a  se  stessi. 

Donna,  ma  stu  rendessi 

Quel  che  t'  ha  dato  il  ciel,  c'  a  noi  Y  ha  tolto, 

Sarie  piu  '1  nostro,  e  men  bello  il  tuo  volto. 


MADRIGALS.  3J 


By  greater  light  and  clearer  star 
Night's  heaven  is  lighted  from  afar ; 
But  things  less  fair,  when  near  to  thee, 
Make  thee  more  fair  than  thou  wouldst  be. 
Oh,  tell  me,  lady,  which  of  these 

To  pity  moves  and  spurs, 
That  when  I  burn,  you  may  not  freeze  ? 
Who  thus  gains  beauty  more  than  hers — 

A  fair  and  lovely  form, 
A  face  and  eyes  and  flowing  hair,  — 
Would  only  her  own  charms  deform 

By  shunning  one  less  fair ; 
For  beauty  but  more  lovely  grows 

Where  others  beauty  lack. 
0  lady,  if  what  Heaven  bestows 

To  us  thou  render  back, 
What  Heaven  from  us  has  ta'en  and  given  to  thee, 
Fairer  our  face,  and  thine  less  fair  would  be. 

E.  D.  C. 


32  MADRIGALL 


XXIII. 

Deh  !  dimmi,  amor,  se  1'  alma  di  costei 
Fosse  pietosa  com'  ha  bell'  il  volto, 
S'  alcun  saria  si  stolto 
Ch'  a  se  non  si  togliessi  e  dessi  a  lei  ? 
Et  io  clie  piu  potrei 
Servirla,  amarla,  se  mi  foss'  arnica ; 
Che,  sendomi  nemica, 
L'  amo  piu  ch'  allor  far  non  doverrei  ? 


MADRIGALS.  33 


XXIII. 

If  pity  filled  her  soul,  0  Cupid,  say, 

As  much  as  beauty  glorifies  her  face,  , 

Could  any  man  be  so  bereft  of  grace 

As  not  to  yield  himself  to  her  dear  sway  ? 

And  e'en  if  she  were  friendly,  tell  me,  how 

Could  I  her  truer  slave  and  lover  be, 

Since,  notwithstanding  her  hostility, 

Far  more  than  then  I  ought,  I  love  her  now  ? 

E.  C. 


34  MADRIGALL 


XXIV. 

Com'  aro  dunque  ardire 

Senza  vo'i  ma\  mio  ben,  tenermi  'n  vita, 
S'  io  non  posso  al  partir  chiedervi  aita  ? 
Que'  singulti,  e  que'  pianti,  e  que'  sospiri 
Che  '1  miser  core  voi  accompagnorno, 
Madonna,  duramen te  dimostrorno 
La  mia  propinqua  morte  e'  miei  martiri. 
Ma  se  ver  e  che  per  assenzia  mai 
Mia  fedel  servitu  vadia  in  obblio, 
II  cor  lasso  con  voi,  che  non  e  mio. 


MADRIGALS.  35 


XXIV. 

How  shall  I  e'er  have  power, 
Taken  from  you,  to  keep  myself  in  life, 
Unable  if  at  parting  to  invoke 

Your  aid  ?     These  plaints,  these  sorrowings,  these  sighs, 
With  which  my  grieving  heart  still  follows  you, 
With  cruel  indication,  lady,  show 
My  near  approaching  death,  my  sufferings. 
But  lest  by  absence  you  forgetful  prove 
How  I  have  served  you  with  all  faithfulness, 
As  a  remembrance  of  my  long-borne  woes, 
I  leave  to  you  my  heart,  which  is  not  mine. 

Taylor. 


36  MADRIGALI. 


XXV. 

Come  pu6  esser  ch'  io  non  sia  piii  mio  ? 
0  dio,  o  dio,  o  dio  ! 
Chi  mi  tolse  a  me  stesso, 
Ch'  a  me  fusse  piii  presso, 
0  piu  di  me,  che  mi  possa  esser  io  ? 
0  dio,  o  dio,  o  dio ! 
Come  mi  passa  '1  core 
Chi  non  par  che  mi  tocchi ! 
Che  cosa  e  questa,  amore, 
Ch'  al  core  entra  per  gli  occhi ; 
E  s'  avvien  che  trabocchi 
Per  poco  spazio,  dentro  par  che  cresca? 


MADRIGALS.  37 


) 


XXV, 


How  is  it  that  I  seem  no  longer  mine  ? 

Some  power  there  seems  to  be, 
Which  moulds  my  will  by  means  I  can't  divine ; 

My  heart  what  flutterings  move, 

Touched  in  some  viewless  guise;  — 

What  is  this  thing  called  Love, 

Which,  entering  by  the  eyes, 

Pervades  the  inmost  soul, 

Where,  spurning  all  control, 

It  claims  resistless  sway, 
While  countless  outward  acts  its  inward  power  display  ? 

Harford. 


38  MADRIGALL 


XXXIX. 

Questa  mia  donna  e  si  pronta  et  ardita, 

Ch'  all'  or  che  la  m'  uccide,  ogni  mio  bene 

Con  gli  occhi  mi  promette,  e  parte  tiene 

II  crudel  ferro  dentro  alia  ferita. 
E  cosi  morte  e  vita, 

Contrarie,  insieme  in  un  picciol  momento 

Dentro  all'  anima  sento : 

Ma  la  grazia  el  tormento 

Minacci'  a  rnorte  per  piu  lunga  prova , 
'  Ch'  assai  pin  nuoce  il  mal,  che  '1  ben  non  giova. 


MADRIGALS.  39 


XXXIX. 

Ev'n  when  she  slays  me,  my  loved  Fair 

Delights  to  act  a  double  part ; 
Her  eyes  speak  promise,  whilst  her  air 

And  mien  strike  daggers  through  my  heart. 
Thus  death  and  life, 
In  dubious  strife 
And  Joy  and  Pain, 
Within  me  reign : 
Soon  will  the  conflict  close,  and  Death's  cold  sway 
Quench  in  the  shades  of  night  Joy's  flattering  ray. 

Harford. 


40  MADRIGALI. 


XLIV. 

Occhi  mie',  siete  certi 

Che  1  tempo  passa,  e  1'  ora  s'  avicina 

C  alle  lacrime  triste  il  passo  serra. 
Pieta  vi  tenga  aperti, 

Mentre  la  mie  divina 

Donna  si  degnia  d'  abitare  in  terra. 

Se  grazia  il  ciel  diserra, 

Com'  a'  beati  suole ; 

Questo  mie  vivo  sole 

Se  lassii  torna,  e  partesi  da  noi, 

Che  cosa  arete  qua  da  veder  poi  ? 


MADRIGALS.  41 


1 

XLIV.       * 

Mine  eyes,  be  certain  quite 
That  time  is  passing,  and  the  hour  draws  nigh 
Which  checks  the  course  of  every  tear  and  sigh. 
May  pity  keep  your  sight, 
The  while  my  fair  divinity 
Doth  deign  to  walk  the  earth's  broad  face. 
If  Heaven  is  unbarred  through  grace, 
As  for  the  blest  is  often  done ; 
If  this  my  living  sun, 
Eeturning  upward,  shall  depart  from  me,  — 
What  will  ye  then,  0  eyes,  have  left  to  see  ? 

e.  a 


42  MADRIGALL 


LIIL 

Chi  e  quel  che  per  forza  a  te  mi  mena, 
Ohime  ohime  ohime ! 
Legato  e  stretto,  e  son  libero  e  sciolto  ? 
Se  tu  'ncateni  altrui  senza  catena, 
E  senza  mani  o  braccia  m'  hai  raccolto, 
Chi  mi  difendera  dal  tuo  bel  volto  ? 


MADRIGALS.  43 


LIIL 

What  is  the  power  which,  though  I  'm  free, 
Draws  me,  in  fetters  bound,  to  thee, 
Sweet  source  of  all  my  joy  and  pain  ? 
If  to  enchain  without  a  chain, 
If  round  my  yielding  heart  to  twine 
Soft  bands  invisible,  be  thine, 
What  shall  defend  me  from  the  grace, 
The  winning  beauties  of  the  face  ? 
[  What  from  the  living  splendor  of  thine  eyes, 
When  Love  embattled  points  his  arrowy  sorceries  ?] 

Harford. 


LjJ^ 


44  MADRIGALI. 


LXXVIII. 

Condotto  da  molt'  anni  all'  ultim'  ore, 

Tardi  conosco,  o  mondo,  i  tuo'  diletti : 
/  La  pace,  che  non  hai,  altrui  prometti, 

E  quel  riposo  c'  anzi  al  nascer  muore. 
La  vergognia  e  '1  timore 

De  gli  anni,  c'  or  prescrive 

II  ciel,  non  mi  rinuova 

Che  '1  vecchio  e  dolce  errore ; 

Nel  qual  chi  troppo  vive 

L'  anim'  ancide,  e  nulla  al  corpo  giova. 

II  dico,  e  so  per  pruova 

Di  me ;  che  'n  ciel  quel  solo  ha  miglior  sorte, 

Ch'  ebbe  al  suo  parto  piu  presso  la  morte. 


MADRIGALS.  45 


LXXVIII. 

Conducted  by  long  years  to  the  last  hours, 
Too  late,  0  world,  I  learn  thy  emptiness ; 
Proffering  to  man  the  quiet  thou  hast  not, 
And  that  repose  which  dieth  in  its  birth. 
But  not  on  that  account  reproach  nor  grief 
For  all  my  fugitive  and  ill-spent  years 
Eenews  desires  and  thoughts  within  my  heart ; 
For  he  who  in  sweet  error  groweth  old, 
Whilst  he  appears  to  quicken  his  desire, 
Doth  kill  the  soul,  —  the  body  profits  not. 
At  length  I  see,  by  sad  experience, 
That  he  enjoys  a  better,  surer  lot 
Who  at  his  birth  is  nearest  unto  death. 

Taylor. 


46  MADRIGALI. 


LXXIX. 

Mentre  che  1  mie  passato  m'  e  presente, 

Si  come  ogni  or  mi  viene, 

O  mondo  falso,  allor  conosco  bene 

L'  errore,  e  1  danno  dell'  umana  gente. 
Quel  cor,  c  alfin  consente 

A  tuo'  lusingi  e  a  tuo'  van  diletti, 

Procaccia  all'  alma  dolorosi  guai : 

Ben  lo  sa  chi  lo  sente ; 

Come  spesso  prometti 

Altrui  la  pace  e  '1  ben  die  tu  non  hai, 

Ne  debbi  aver  gia  mai. 

Dunche  ha  men  grazia  chi  phi  qua  soggiorna; 

Che  chi  men  vive,  piu  lieve  al  ciel  torna. 


MADRIGALS.  47 


LXXIX. 

When  thoughts  of  days  long  past  upon  me  steal, 
In  vain  I  shun  them ;  all  their  forms  arise : 
Then,  0  fallacious  world,  I  deeply  feel 
How  steeped  in  error  man  besotted  lies. 

The  heart  which  yields  its  faith  to  thee, 

Charmed  by  thy  magic  sorcery, 

And  thoughtless  thrids  the  giddy  round 

Of  vain  delights  within  thee  found, 

By  the  sad  issue  learns  to  know 

That  Pleasure  is  the  nurse  of  Woe. 

He  who  is  wise,  at  length  will  cease 

To  trust  thy  promises  of  peace ; 

Convinced  thou  never  canst  bestow 

The  good  it  is  not  thine  to  know. 
The  troubles  I  have  proved,  the  griefs  which  dim  my  eyes, 
Have  sprung  from  yielding  faith  to  thy  vain  fallacies. 

Harford. 


48  MADRIGALI. 


LXXXII. 

Donn',  a  me  vecchio  e  grave, 
Ov'  io  torno  e  rientro 
Si  come  a  peso  il  centro, 
Che  fuor  di  quel  riposo  alcun  non  ave, 
II  ciel  porgie  le  chiave. 
Amor  le  volgie  e  gira, 
E  apre  a'  iusti  il  petto  di  costei : 
Le  voglie  inique  e  prave 
Mi  vieta,  e  la  mi  tira, 
Gia  stanco  e  vil,  fra'  rari  e  semidei. 
Grazie  vengon  da  lei 
Strane  e  dolce  e  d'  un  certo  valore, 
Che  per  se  vive  chiunche  per  le'  muore. 


MADRIGALS.  49 


LXXXIJ) 

Lady,  to  me  infirm  and  old, 

Where  I  return  and  enter, 

As  to  the  weight,  the  centre 
Which,  thence  removed,  no  stable  rest  can  hold, 

Kind  Heaven  the  keys  doth  proffer, 

Which  Love  should  fit  and  turn, 

And  thus  to  me  doth  offer 
That  inner  joy  for  which  pure  spirits  yearn. 

Each  sinful  wish  forbidding, 

He  draws  me,  with  sweet  leading, 
Weary  and  low,  to  comrades  half  divine  j 

While  every  grace  of  thine 
Is  strange  and  sweet,  and  of  undoubted  worth. 
Who  dies  for  thee  has  to  new  living  birth. 

J.  W.  H. 


50  MADBIGALL 


LXXXIII. 

Or  d'  un  fier  diaccio  or  d'  un  ardente  foco, 
Or  d'  anni  o  guai  or  di  vergogna  armato, 
L'  avvenir  nel  passato 
Specchio,  con  trista  e  dolorosa  speme ; 
E  1  ben,  per  durar  poco, 
Sento  non  men  che  1  mal  m'  affligge  e  preme. 
Alia  buona  alia  ria  fortuna  insieme, 
Di  me  gia  stanche,  ognor  chieggio  perdono : 
E  veggio  ben,  che  della  vita  sono 
Ventura  e  grazia  1'  ore  breve  e  corte, 
Se  la  miseria  medica  la  morte. 


MADRIGALS.  51 


LXXXIII. 

Now  in  a  frost,  now  in  a  burning  flame, 
Weighted  with  many  years  of  woe  and  shame, 
The  future  in  the  past  I  see, 
Yet  with  no  hope  that  comforts  me, 
Since  welfare,  by  its  term  so  brief, 
Loads  and  oppresses  me  like  grief. 
Alike  in  good  or  evil  fate, 
My  weary  self  asks  pardon  late ; 
And  I  see  well  that  life's  short  hours 
Are  blessings  from  the  gracious  powers, 
If  death  can  medicine  my  woful  state. 

E.  D.  C. 


52  MADRIGALL 


XCIII. 

Amor,  se  tu  se'  dio, 

Non  puo'  cio  che  tu  vuoi  ? 

Deh  fa'  per  me,  se  puoi, 

Quel  ch'  io  farei  per  te,  s'  amor  fuss'  io ! 
Sconviensi  al  gran  desio 

D'  alta  belta  la  speme, 

Viepiu  T  effetto,  a  chi  e  presso  al  morire. 

Pon  nel  tuo  grado  il  mio : 

Dolce  gli  fie  chi  '1  preme  ? 

Che  grazia  per  poc'  or,  doppia  '1  martire. 

Ben  ti  voglio  ancor  dire : 

Che  sarie  morte,  s'  a'  miseri  e  dura, 

A  chi  muor  giunto  all'  alta  sua  ventura  ? 


MADRIGALS.  53 


XCIH. 

If  thou  'rt  a  god,  Love, 
Is  not  thy  power  free  ? 
Ah !  do  for  me,  if  thou  canst,  Love, 
What  if  I  were  Love,  I  'd  do  for  thee ! 
'T  is  only  with  ill  grace 
One  woos  a  beauty  rare, 
When  weighed  with  years,  and  on  the  eve  of  dying. 
A  moment  take  my  place : 
Is  that  which  burdens,  fair  ? 
A  transient  grace  is  torment  doubly  trying. 

And  this,  too,  mid  our  sighing : 
What  would  death  be,  which  e'en  the  wretched  shun, 
To  him  who  dies  when  highest  bliss  is  won  ? 

E.  C. 


SONETTI. 


I 
PEE  DANTE  ALIGHIERI. 

[1545.] 

Dal  ciel  discese,  e  col  mortal  suo,  poi 
Che  vis  to  ebbe  Y  inferno  giusto  e  '1  pio, 
Ritorno  vivo  a  contemplare  Dio, 
Per  dar  di  tutto  il  vero  lume  a  noi : 

Lucente  stella,  che  co'  raggi  suoi 

Fe  chiaro,  a  torto,  el  nido  ove  naqqu'  io ; 
Ne  sare'  '1  premio  tutto  1  mondo  rio : 
Tu  sol,  che  la  creasti,  esser  quel  puoi. 

Di  Dante  dico,  che  mal  conosciute 
Fur  1'  opre  suo  da  quel  popolo  ingrato, 
Che  solo  a'  iusti  manca  di  salute. 

Fuss'  io  pur  lui !  c'  a  tal  fortuna  nato, 
Per  1'  aspro  esilio  suo,  con  la  virtute, 
Dare'  del  mondo  il  piu  felice  stato. 


SONNETS. 


TO  DANTE. 

[1545.] 

Fkom  Heaven  he  came,  a  mortal  then ; 

And  Hell's  just  path  and  Mercy's  highway  trod, 

Living,  returned  to  look  upon  his  God, 
And  give  his  holy  light  to  us  again : 
A  shining  star,  that  with  its  brilliant  rays 

Illumed  in  evil  times  the  nest  where  I  was  born. 

As  guerdon  fit  for  him,  this  wicked  earth  I  scorn 
God,  his  creator,  him  alone  repays. 
1  speak  of  Dante ;  for,  alas  !  ill  known 

His  labors  are,  by  that  foul  mob  ingrate, 
Whose  honors  fail  but  to  the  just  alone. 

Would  I  were  he !  for,  born  to  such  a  fate, 
His  bitter  exile,  and  his  courage  shown, 

I  would  not  change  for  Earth's  most  happy  state. 

E.  D.  C. 


56  SONETTL 


II. 
PER  IL  MEDESIMO. 

Quante  dime  si  de'  non  si  puo  dire, 

Che  troppo  agli  orbi  il  suo  splendor  s'  accese 
Biasmar  si  puo  piu  '1  popol  che  1'  offese, 
C '  al  suo  men  pregio  ogni  maggior  salire. 

Questo  discese  a'  merti  del  fallire, 
Per  1'  util  nostro,  e  poi  a  Dio  ascese : 

,  E  le  porte  che  1  ciel  non  gli  contese, 
La  patria  chiuse  al  suo  giusto  desire. 

Ingrata,  dico,  e  della  suo  fortuna 

A  suo  danno  nutrice ;  ond'  e  ben  segnio, 
C '  a'  piu  perfetti  abonda  di  piu  guai. 

Fra  mille  altre  ragion  sol  ha  quest'  una: 
Se  par  non  ebbe  il  suo  esilio  indegnio, 
Simil  uom  ne  maggior  non  naqque  mai. 


SONNETS.  57 


II. 
TO  DANTE. 

What  should  be  said  of  him,  I  may  not  speak ; 

His  splendor  overwhelms  my  blinded  sight. 

To  censure  those  who  wronged  him  is  my  right, 
Since  for  his  least  worth  my  language  is  too  weak. 
He  bended  low  where  God  doth  punish  sin, 

To  teach  us ;  then  to  God  did  he  ascend. 

'Gainst  him  the  gates  of  heaven  would  not  defend ; 
Yet  his  false  country  would  not  welcome  him. 
Ungrateful  country  !  of  thy  children's  fate, 

Nurse  to  thine  harm,  bear  witness  this,  — 

To  thy  most  perfect,  comes  thy  greatest  shame. 
So,  from  a  thousand  proofs,  this  one  I  state,  — 

No  equal  exile  hath  there  been  to  his : 

No  greater  man  than  he  on  earth  e'er  came. 

E.  D.  C. 


58  SONETTI. 


IV. 


Qua  si  fa  elmi  di  calici  e  spade, 

E  1  sangue  di  Cristo  si  vend'  a  giumelle, 
E  croce  e  spine  son  lance  e  rotelle ; 
E  pur  da  Cristo  pazienzia  cade ! 

Ma  non  c'  arivi  piu  'n  queste  contrade, 
Che  n'  andre'  '1  sangue  suo  'nsin  alle  stelle, 
Poscia  che  a  Eoma  gli  vendon  la  pelle ; 
E  eci  d'  ogni  ben  chiuso  le  strade. 

S'  i'  ebbi  ma'  voglia  a  posseder  tesauro, 
Per  cio  clie  qua  opra  da  me  e  partita, 
Pu6  quel  nel  manto  che  Medusa  in  Mauro. 

Ma  se  alto  in  cielo  e  poverta  gradita, 
Qual  fia  di  nostro  stato  il  gran  restauro, 
S'  un  altro  segno  amorza  1'  altra  vita  ? 


SONNETS.  59 


IV. 


Here  helms  and  swords  are  made  of  chalices : 
The  blood  of  Christ  is  sold  so  much  the  quart : 
His  cross  and  thorns  are  spears  and  shields ;  and  short 

Must  be  the  time  e'er  even  his  patience  cease. 

Nay,  let  him  come  no  more  to  raise  the  fees 
Of  this  foul  sacrilege  beyond  report ! 
For  Rome  still  flays  and  sells  him  at  the  court, 

Where  paths  are  closed  to  virtue's  fair  increase. 

Now  were  fit  time  for  me  to  scrape  a  treasure ! 
Seeing  that  work  and  gain  are  gone ;  while  he 
Who  wears  the  robe,  is  my  Medusa  still. 

God  welcomes  poverty  perchance  with  pleasure : 
But  of  that  better  life  what  hope  have  we, 

When  the  blessed  banner  leads  to  nought  but  ill  ? 

Symonds. 


60  SONETTI. 


A  GIOVANNI  DA  PISTOIA, 

QUANDO  L'  ADTORE  DIPIGNEVA   LA  VOLTA  DELLA  SISTINA. 
[1509.] 

I*  ho  gia  fatto  un  gozzo  in  questo  stento, 

Come  fa  1*  acqua  a*  gatti  in  Lombardia, 

0  ver  d'  altro  paese  che  si  sia, 

Ch'  a  forza  1  ventre  appicca  sotto  1  mento. 
La  barba  al  cielo,  e  la  memoria  sento 

In  sullo  scrignio,  e  '1  petto  fo  d'  arpia ; 

E  1  pennel  sopra  '1  viso  tuttavia 

Mel  fa,  gocciando,  un  ricco  pavimento. 
E  lombi  entrati  mi  son  nella  peccia, 

E  fo  del  cul  per  contrapeso  groppa, 

E'  passi  senza  gli  occhi  muovo  invano. 
Dinanzi  mi  s'  allunga  la  corteccia, 

E  per  piegarsi  adietro  si  ragroppa, 

E  tendomi  com'  arco  soriano. 

Per6  fallace  e  strano 

Surgie  il  iudizio  che  la  mente  porta ; 

Che  mal  si  tra'  per  cerbottana  torta. 

La  mia  pittura  morta 

Difendi  orma',  Giovanni,  e  1  mio  onore, 

Non  sen  do  in  loco  bon,  ne  io  pit  tore. 


SONNETS.  61 

V. 

TO  GIOVANNI  DA  PISTOJA, 

WHILE  THE  AUTHOR  WAS  PAINTING  THE  SISTINE  CHAPEL. 
[1509.] 

I  've  grown  a  goitre  by  dwelling  in  this  den  — 
As  cats  from  stagnant  streams  in  Lombardy, 
Or  in  what  other  land  they  hap  to  be  — 
Which  drives  the  belly  close  beneath  the  chin : 
My  beard  turns  up  to  heaven ;  my  nape  falls  in, 
Fixed  on  my  spine :  my  breast-bone  visibly 
Grows  like  a  harp :  a  rich  embroidery 
Bedews  my  face  from  brush-drops  thick  and  thin. 
My  loins  into  my  paunch  like  levers  grind : 
My  buttock  like  a  crupper  bears  my  weight ; 
My  feet  unguided  wander  to  and  fro ; 
In  front  my  skin  grows  loose  and  long ;  behind, 
By  bending  it  becomes  more  taut  and  strait ; 
Crosswise  I  strain  me  like  a  Syrian  bow : 
Whence  false  and  quaint,  I  know, 
Must  be  the  fruit  of  squinting  brain  and  eye ; 
For  ill  can  aim  the  gun  that  bends  awry. 

Come  then,  Giovanni,  try 
To  succour  my  dead  pictures  and  my  fame ; 
Since  foul  I  fare  and  painting  is  my  shame. 

Symonds. 


62  SONETTI. 


XII. 
A  VITTOEIA  COLONNA. 

Felice  spirto,  che  con  zelo  ardente, 

Vecchio  alia  morte,  in  vita  il  mio  cor  tieni, 
E  fra  mill'  altri  tuo'  diletfci  e  beni 
Me  sol  saluti  fra  piu  nobil  gente ; 

Come  mi  fusti  agli  occhi,  or  alia  mente, 
Per  T  altru'  fiate,  a  consolar  mi  vieni : 
Onde  la  speme  il  duol  par  che  raffreni, 
Che  non  men  che  1  disio  1'  anima  sente. 

Dunche  trovando  in  te  chi-per  me  parla, 
Grazia.  di  te  per  me  fra  tante  cure, 
Tal  grazia  ne  ringrazia  chi  ti  scrive. 

Che  sconcia  e  grand'  usur  saria  a  farla, 
Donandoti  turpissime  pitture 
Per  riaver  persone  belle  e  vive. 


SONNETS.  t)3 


XII. 
TO  VITTOBIA  COLONNA. 

Blest  spirit,  who  with  loving  tenderness 
Quickenest  my  heart  so  old  and  near  to  die, 
Who  mid  thy  joys  on  me  dost  bend  an  eye 

Though  many  nobler  men  around  thee  press  ! 

As  thou  wert  erewhile  wont  my  sight  to  bless, 
So  to  console  my  mind  thou  now  dost  fly ; 
Hope  therefore  stills  the  pangs  of  memory, 

Which  coupled  with  desire  my  soul  distress. 

So  finding  in  thee  grace  to  plead  for  me  — 
Thy  thoughts  for  me  sunk  in  so  sad  a  case  — 

He  who  now  writes,  returns  thee  thanks  for  these. 

Lo,  it  were  foul  and  monstrous  usury 

To  send  thee  ugliest  paintings  in  the  place 
Of  thy  fair  spirit's  living  phantasies. 

Symonds. 


64  SONETTI. 


XIII. 
A  VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

Per  esser  manco  almen,  signiora,  indegnio 
Dell'  immensa  vostr'  alta  cortesia, 
Prima,  all'  incontro  a  quella,  usar  la  mia 
Con  tutto  il  cor  volse  1  mie  basso  ingegnio. 

Ma  visto  poi  c'  ascendere  a  quel  segnio 
Propio  valor  non  e  c'  apra  la  via, 
Perdon  domanda  la  mie  colpa  ria, 
E  del  fallir  piu  saggio  ognior  divegnio. 

E  veggio  ben  com'  erra,  s'  alcun  crede 
La  grazia,  che  da  voi  divina  piove, 
Pareggi  1'  opra  mia  caduca  e  frale. 

L'  ingegnio  e  1'  arte  e  la  memoria  cede  : 
C  un  don  celeste  mai  con  mille  pruove 
Pagar  puo  sol  del  suo  chi  e  mortale. 


SONNETS.  65 


XIII. 
TO   VITTOEIA  COLONNA. 

Oh,  noble  lady,  but  more  true  to  be 

To  the  high  gift  of  your  great  courtesy, 

I  gladly  would  increasing  merit  find 

In  the  poor  efforts  of  my  lowly  mind ! 

But  when  unto  this  lofty  height  I  climb, 

The  strength  and  worth  to  reach  it  are  not  mine. 

My  wicked  boldness  asks  for  saving  grace, 

That  wisdom  may  some  good  from  failure  trace. 

He  errs,  if  any  lets  that  foolish  thought  prevail 
That  to  the  grace  divine,  flowing  from  you  to  me, 
My  frail  and  dying  work  can  ever  equal  be : 

My  mind  and  art  and  memory  all  would  fail. 
How  can  a  mortal,  with  a  thousand  efforts,  pay 
Celestial  gifts,  in  his  poor  feeble  way  ? 

E.  D.  C 


6Q  SONETTI. 


XIV. 
A  VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

[1550.] 

Da  che  concetto  ha  1'  arte  intera  e  diva 
La  forma  e  gli  atti  d'  alcun,  poi  di  quello 
D'  urnil  materia  un  semplice  modello 
E  1  primo  parto  che  da  quel  deriva. 

Ma  nel  secondo  poi  di  pietra  viva 

S'  adempion  le  promesse  del  martello; 

E  si  rinasce  tal  concetto  e  bello, 

Che  ma'  non  e  chi  suo  eterno  prescriva. 

Simil,  di  me  model,  nacqu'  io  da  prima ; 
Di  me  model,  per  cosa  piu  perfetta 
Da  voi  rinascer  poi,  donna  alta  e  degna. 

Se  '1  poco  accresce,  1  mio  superchio  lima 
Vostra  pieta  ;  qual  penitenzia  aspetta 
Mio  fiero  ardor,  se  mi  gastiga  e  insegna  ? 


SONNETS.  67 


XIV. 
TO   VITTOEIA   COLONNA. 

[1550.] 

When  divine  Art  conceives  a  form  and  face, 
She  bids  the  craftsman  for  his  first  essay 
To  shape  a  simple  model  in  mere  clay : 

This  is  the  earliest  birth  of  Art's  embrace. 

From  the  live  marble  in  the  second  place 
His  mallet  brings  into  the  light  of  day 
A  thing  so  beautiful  that  who  can  say 

When  time  shall  conquer  that  immortal  grace  ? 

Thus  my  own  model  I  was  born  to  be  — 
The  model  of  that  nobler  self,  whereto 
Schooled  by  your  pity,  lady,  I  shall  grow. 

Each  overplus  and  each  deficiency 

You  will  make  good.     What  penance  then  is  due 
For  my  fierce  heat,  chastened  and  taught  by  you  ? 

Symonds. 


6$  SONETTI. 


XV. 

Non  ha  1'  ottimo  artista  alcun  concetto, 
Ch'  un  marmo  solo  in  se  nou  circonscriva 
Col  suo  soverchio ;  e  solo  a  quello  arriva 
La  man  che  ubbidisce  all'  intelletto. 

II  mal  ch'  io  fuggo,  e  '1  ben  ch'  io  mi  prometto, 
In  te,  donna  leggiadra,  altera  e  diva, 
Tal  si  nasconde ;  e  perch'  io  piu  non  viva, 
Contraria  ho  Y  arte  al  disiato  effetto. 

Amor  dunque  non  ha^  ne  tua  beltate, 
0  durezza,  o  fortuna,  o  gran  disdegno, 
Del  mio  mal  colpa,  o  mio  destino  o  sorte ; 

Se  dentro  del  tuo  cor  morte  e  pietate 

Porti  in  un  tempo,  e  che  1  mio  basso  ingegno 
Non  sappia,  ardendo,  trarne  altro  che  morte. 


SONNETS.  69 


xv.: 


Whate'er  conception  a  great  artist  fires, 
Its  answering  semblance  latent  lies  within 
A  block  of  marble  ;  but  the  hand  alone, 
Swayed  by  the  intellect,  can  give  it  form. 
Lady  illustrious,  graceful,  and  divine, 
The  Good  I  'd  seek  for,  and  the  111  I  'd  shun, 
Thus  latent  are  in  thee  ;  but  I,  death-struck, 
Fail  in  my  efforts  to  attain  that  Good. 
Nor  love,  then,  nor  thy  beauty  are  the  cause, 
Nor  adverse  fortune,  nor  thy  cold  disdain, 
Of  the  sad  destiny  'neath  which  I  pine. 
If  death  and  pity  each  within  thy  heart 
Together  dwell,  how  weak  my  power,  which  fails, 
Though  ardent,  to  extract  thence  aught  but  death. 

Harford. 

1  See  Appendix,  p.  162  (6). 


70  SONETT1. 


XVII. 

Com'  esser,  donna,  pu6  quel  ch'  alcun  vede 
Per  lunga  sperienza,  che  piu  dura 
L'  immagin  viva  in  pietra  alpestra  e  dura, 
Che  1  suo  fattor,  che  gli  anni  in  cener  riede  ? 

La  causa  all'  effetto  inclina  e  cede, 
Onde  dall'  arte  e  vinta  la  natura. 
Io  1  so,  che  '1  provo  in  la  bella  scultura  ; 
Ch'  all'  opra  il  tempo  e  morte  non  tien  fede. 

Dunque  posso  ambo  noi  dar  lunga  vita 
In  qual  sie  modo,  o  di  colore  o  sasso, 
Di  noi  sembrando  1'  uno  e  1'  altro  volto : 

Si  che  mill'  anni  dopo  la  partita 

Quanto  e  voi  bella  fusti,  e  quant'  io  lasso 
Si  veggia,  e  com'  amarvi  io  non  fui  stolto. 


SONNETS.  71 


XVII. 

How,  lady,  can  it  be  —  which  yet  is  shown 

By  long  experience  —  that  the  imaged'  form 

Lives  in  the  mountain  stone,  and  long  survives 

Its  maker,  whom  the  dart  of  Death  soon  strikes  ? 

The  frailer  cause  doth  yield  to  the  effect, 

And  nature  is  in  this  by  art  surpassed. 

I  know  it  well,  whom  Sculpture  so  befriends, 

Whilst  evermore  Time  breaketh  faith  with  me. 

Perchance  to  both  of  us  I  may  impart 

A  lasting  life  in  colors  or  in  stone, 

By  copying  the  mind  and  face  of  each ; 

So  that  for  ages  after  my  decease 

The  world  may  see  how  beautiful  thou  wert,  — 

How  much  I  loved  thee,  nor  in  loving  erred. 

Taylor. 


72  SONETTI. 


XX. 

Quanto  si  gode,  lieta  e  ben  con  testa 

Di  nor,  sopra'  crin  d'  or  d'  una,  grillanda ; 
Che  1'  altro  inanzi  1'  uno  all'  altro  manda, 
Come  ch'  il  primo  sia  a  baciar  la  testa ! 

Contenta  e  tutto  il  giorno  quella  vesta 
Che  serra  '1  petto,  e  poi  par  che  si  spanda ; 
E  quel  c'  oro  filato  si  domanda 
Le  guanci'  e  '1  collo  di  toccar  non  resta. 

Ma  piu  lieto  quel  nastro  par  che  goda, 
Dorato  in  punta,  con  si  fatte  tempre, 
Che  preme  e  tocca  il  petto  ch'  egli  allaccia. 

E  la  schietta  cintura  che  s'  annoda 

Mi  par  dir  seco :  qui  vo'  stringier  sempre ! 
Or  che  farebbon  dunche  le  mie  braccia  ? 


SONNETS.  73 


What  joy  hath  yon  glad  wreath  of  flowers  that  is 
Around  her  golden  hair  so  deftly  twined, 
Each  blossom  pressing  forward  from  behind, 

As  though  to  be  the  first  her  brows  to  kiss ! 

The  livelong  day  her  dress  hath  perfect  bliss, 
That  now  reveals  her  breast,  now  seems  to  bind : 
And  that  fair  woven  net  of  gold  refined 

Eests  on  her  cheek  and  throat  in  happiness ! 

Yet  still  more  blissful  seems  to  me  the  band 
Gilt  at  the  tips,  so  sweetly  doth  it  ring 
And  clasp  the  bosom  that  it  serves  to  lace : 

Yea,  and  the  belt,  to  such  as  understand, 

Bound  round  her  waist,  saith :  here  I  'd  ever  cling. 
What  would  my  arms  do  in  that  girdle's  place  ? 

Symonds. 


74  J  SONETTI. 


XXI. 

D'  altrui  pietoso  e  sol  di  se  spietato 
Nascie  un  vil  bruto,  clie  con  dolce  doglia 
L'  altrui  man  veste,  e  la  suo  scorza  spoglia, 
E  sol  per  morte  si  pu6  dir  ben  nato. 

Cosi  volesse  al  mie  signior  mie  fato 
Vestir  suo  viva  di  mie  morta  spoglia ; 
Che,  come  serpe  al  sasso  si  discoglia, 
Pur  per  morte  potria  cangiar  mie  stato. 

0  fussi  sol  la  mie  1'  irsuta  pelle 

Che,  del  suo  pel  contesta,  fa  tal  gonna 
Che  con  ventura  stringe  si  bel  seno, 

Che  1  giorno  pur  m'  aresti ;  o  le  pianelle 
Fuss'  io,  che  basa  a  quel  fanno  e  colonna, 
C  al  piover  t'  are'  pure  addosso  almeno. 


SONNETS.  75 


£^ZL 


Kind  to  the  world,  but  to  itself  unkind, 

A  worm  is  born  that  dying  noiselessly 

Despoils  itself  to  clothe  fair  limbs,  and  be 
In  its  true  worth  by  death  alone  divined. 
Oh,  would  that  I  might  die,  for  her  to  find 

Eaiment  in  my  outworn  mortality ! 

That,  changing  like  the  snake,  I  might  be  free 
To  cast  the  slough  wherein  I  dwell  confined  ! 
Nay,  were  it  mine,  that  shaggy  fleece  that  stays, 

Woven  and  wrought  into  a  vestment  fair, 
Around  her  beauteous  bosom  in  such  bliss ! 

All  through  the  day  she  'd  clasp  me !  Would  I  were 
The  shoes  that  bear  her  burden !    When  the  ways 
Were  wet  with  rain,  her  feet  I  then  should  kiss ! 

Symonds. 


76  SONETTI. 


XXIII. 

Ben  possou  gli  occhi  mia  presso  e  lontano 
Veder  dove  apparisce  il  tuo  bel  volto  ; 
Ma  dove  lor,  a'  pie,  donna,  e  ben  tolto 
Portar  le  braccia  e  1'  una  e  1'  altra  mano. 

L'  anima,  1'  intelletto  intero  e  sano 

Per  gli  occhi  ascende  piu  libero  e  sciolto 
All'  alta  tuo  belta ;  ma  1'  ardor  molto 
Non  da  tal  privilegio  al  corpo  umano 

Grave  e  mortal ;  si  che  mal  segue  poi 
Senz'  ale  ancor  d'  un'  angioletta  il  volo, 
E  1  veder  sol  pur  se  ne  gloria  e  loda. 

Deh  !  se  tu  puoi  nel  ciel  quanto  tra  noi, 
Fa'  del  mio  corpo  tutto  un  occhio  solo  ; 
Ne  fia  poi  parte  in  me  che  non  ti  goda. 


SONNETS.  77 


XXTTH 

My  eyes  may  wander,  whether  far  or  near, 
Wherever  shows  itself  thy  face  so  fair ; 
But  yet  my  feet,  0  Lady,  may  not  dare 

To  bring  my  arms  within  this  vision's  sphere. 

The  soul,  the  intellect,  intact  and  clear 

Ascendeth  through  the  eyes  with  freedom,  where 
Thy  beauty  reigns ;  yet  all  our  longing  ne'er 

Can  serve  to  make  the  human  body  freer : 

This  heavy  mortal  frame  doth  strive  but  ill, 
Wingless,  with  angel's  lofty  flight  to  vie, 
And  all  its  boast  and  pleasure  are  to  see. 

Ah !  if  in  heaven,  as  here,  thou  hast  thy  will, 
Make  thou  my  body  all  one  single  eye, 
That  I  may  have  no  part  but  joys  in  thee. 

E.  C. 


78  SONETTI. 


XXIV. 

Spirto  ben  nato,  in  cui  si  specchia  e  vede 
Nelle  tuo  belle  membra  oneste  e  care 
Quante  natura  e  '1  ciel  tra  no'  pu6  fare, 

!   Quand'  a  null'  altra  suo  bell'  opra  cede  : 

Spirto  leggiadro,  in  cui  si  spera  e  crede 
Dentro,  come  di  fuor  nel  viso  appare, 
Amor,  pieta,  merce  ;  cose  si  rare, 
Che  ma'  f urn'  in  belta  con  tanta  fede : 

1/  amor  mi  prende,  e  la  belta  mi  lega  ; 
La  pieta,  la  merce  con  dolci  sguardi 
Ferma  speranz'  al  cor  par  che  ne  doni. 

Qual  uso  o  qual  governo  al  mondo  niega, 
Qual  crudelta  per  tempo,  o  qual  piu  tardi, 
C  a  si  bel  viso  morte  non  perdoni  ? 


SONNETS.  79 


XXIV. 

Thou  high-born  spirit,  on  whose  countenance, 

Pure  and  beloved,  is  seen  reflected  all 

That  Heaven  and  Nature  can  on  earth  achieve, 

Surpassing  all  their  beauteous  works  with  one ; 

Fair  spirit,  within  whom  we  hope  to  find, 

As  in  thine  outward  countenance  appears, 

Love,  piety,  and  mercy,  —  things  so  rare 

As  with  such  faith  were  ne'er  in  beauty  found,  — 

Love  seizes  me,  and  beauty  chains  my  soul. 

The  pitying  love  of  thy  blest  countenance 

Gives  to  my  heart,  it  seems,  firm  confidence. 

Thou  faithless  world,  thou  sad  deceitful  life, 

What  law,  what  envious  decree,  denies 

That  Death  should  spare  a  work  so  beautiful  ? 

Taylor. 


£0  SONETTI. 


XXV. 

Dimmi  di  grazia,  amor,  se  gli  occhi  mei 
Veggono  '1  ver  della  belta  ch'  aspiro, 
0  s'  io  1'  ho  dentro  allor  che,  dov'  io  miro, 
Veggio  piu  bello  el  viso  di  costei. 

Tu  '1  de'  saper,  po'  che  tu  vien  con  lei 
A  torm'  ogni  mie  pace,  ond'  io  m'  adiro ; 
Ne  vorre'  manco  un  minimo  sospiro, 
Ne  men  ardente  foco  chiederei 

La  belta  che  tu  vedi  e  ben  da  quella ; 
Ma  crescie  poi  ch'  a  miglior  loco  sale, 
Se  per  gli  occhi  mortali  all'  alma  corre. 

Quivi  si  fa  divina,  onesta  e  bella, 
Com'  a  se  simil  vuol  cosa  immortale : 
Questa,  e  non  quella,  a  gli  occhi  tuo'  precorre. 


SONNETS.  81 


Poet. 

Tell  me,  0  Love,  I  pray  thee,  do  mine  eyes 
Behold  that  Beauty's  truth  which  I  admire, 
Or  lives  it  in  my  heart,  —  for  wheresoe'er 
I  turn,  more  fair  her  countenance  appears  ? 
Thou  well  must  know,  for  thou  dost  come  with  her, 
To  take  from  me  my  peace,  whence  I  complain ; 
And  yet  I  would  not  wish  one  brief  sigh  less, 
Nor  that  the  flame  within  me  were  less  strong. 

Love. 

The  Beauty  thou  regardest  is  from  her, 
But  grows  as  to  a  better  place  it  riseth, 
If  through  the  mortal  eyes  it  finds  the  soul. 
There  it  becomes  ennobled,  fair,  divine ; 
For  immortal  thing  assimilates  the  pure : 
This  one,  and  not  the  other,  meets  thine  eye. 

Taylor. 


I 


82  SONETTI. 


XXVIII. 

La  vita  del  mie  amor  non  e  '1  cor  mio, 

Ch'  amor,  di  quel  ch'  io  t'  amo,  e  senza  core ; 
Dov'  e  cosa  mortal  piena  d'  errore, 
Esser  non  pu6  gia  ma',  ne  pensier  rio. 

Amor  nel  dipartir  1'  alma  da  Dio 

Me  fe'  san  occhio,  e  te  luc'  e  splendore ; 
Ne  puo  non  rivederlo  in  quel  che  muore 
Di  te,  per  nostro  mal,  mie  gran  disio. 

Come  dal  foco  el  caldo  esser  diviso 

Non  pu6,  dal  bell'  etterno  ogni  mie  stima, 
Ch'  esalta,  ond'  ella  vien,  chi  piu  1  somiglia. 

Tu  c'  hai  negli  occhi  tutto  '1  paradiso, 
Per  ritornar  la  dov'  i'  t'  ama'  prima, 
Ricorro  ardendo  sott'  alle  tuo  ciglia. 


SONNETS.  83 


XXVIIT. 

The  life  spring  of  my  love  is  not  my  heart ; 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  devoid  of  heart, 

There  tending  where  nor  human  passion,  fraught 

With  error,  nor  a  guilty  thought  is  found. 

Love,  when  our  souls  proceeded  forth  from  God, 

My  vision  clear,  and  Thee  all  splendor  made ; 

And  still  I  seem  its  traces  to  behold, 

E'en  in  thy  frame  which  sin  has  mortal  made. 

As  heat  from  fire  is  not  divisible, 

Thus  with  the  Eternal  blends  the  Beautiful, 

And  I  their  emanations  ever  hail. 

Beholding  in  thine  eyes  bright  Paradise, 

Ever  beneath  their  radiance  I  would  dwell, 

And  thus  return  where  first  I  loved  thee  so. 

Harforb. 


84  SONETTI. 


J 
XXX. 

Veggio  co'  bei  vostrd  occhi  un  dolce  lume, 
Che  co'  miei  ciechi  gia  veder  non  posso ; 
Porto  co'  vostri  piedi  un  pondo  a  dosso, 
Che  de'  mie'  zoppi  non  e  gia  costume ; 

Volo  con  le  vostr'  ale  senza  piuine ; 

Col  vostr'  ingegno  al  ciel  sempre  son  mosso ; 
Dal  vostr'  arbitrio  son  pallido  e  rosso ; 
Freddo  al  sol,  caldo  alle  piu  fredde  brume. 

Nel  voler  vostro  e  sol  la  voglia  mia, 
I  mie'  pensier  nel  vostro  cor  si  fanno, 
Nel  vostro  fiato  son  le  mia  parole. 

Come  lima  da  se  sol  par  ch'  io  sia ; 

Che  gli  occhi  nostri  in  ciel  veder  non  sanno 
Se  non  quel  tanto  che  n'  accende  il  sole. 


SONNETS.  85 


XXX. 

Through  your  clear  eyes  I  view  a  beauteous  light, 

That  my  dark  sight  would  ever  seek  in  vain ; 

With  your  firm  steps  a  burden  I  support, 

Which  my  weak  power  was  never  used  to  bear. 

I  soar  aloft,  unplumed,  upon  your  wings, 

By  your  intelligence  to  heaven  am  raised ; 

Your  smile  or  frown  maketh  me  pale  or  red, 

Cold  in  the  sun,  warm  'mid  severest  chills. 

In  your  will  is  mine  own  will  ever  fixed ; 

My  thoughts  find  birth  and  growth  within  your  heart ; 

My  words  are  from  your  spirit  only  drawn ; 

And  like  the  moon,  alone  in  heaven,  I  seem, 

That  to  our  eyes  were  indiscernible, 

Save  by  that  light  which  from  the  sun  proceeds. 

Taylor. 


86  SONETTL 


XXXII. 

S'  UN  casto  amor,  s'  una  pieta  superna, 
S'  una  fortuna  infra  dua  amanti  equale, 
S'  un'  aspra  sorte  all'  un  dell'  altro  cale, 
S'  un  spirto,  s'  un  voler  duo  cor  governa ; 

S'  un'  anima  in  duo  corpi  e  fatta  eterna, 
Ambo  levando  al  cielo  e  con  pari  ale ; 
S'  amor  d'  un  colpo  e  d'  un  dorato  strale 
Le  viscier  di  duo  petti  arda  e  discierna ; 

S'  amar  Y  un  1'  altro,  e  nessun  se  medesmo, 
D'  un  gusto  e  d'  un  diletto,  a  tal  mercede, 
C  a  un  fin  voglia  1'  uno  e  1'  altro  porre 

Se  mille  e  mille  non  sarien  centesmo 
A  tal  nodo  d'  amore,  a  tanta  fede ; 
E  sol  1'  isdegnio  il  puo  rompere  e  sciorre  ? 


SONNETS.  87 


If  a  chaste  love,  a  piety  supernal, 
A  fortune  to  two  lovers  equal  still 
That  grief  to  one  doth  bring  the  other  ill, 
One  spirit  binding  both  with  bond  fraternal; 

If  one  soul  in  two  frames  becomes  eternal, 
To  heaven  rising  both  with  equal  wing ; 
If  love,  with  one  gold  arrow  from  its  string, 
Within  both  hearts  kindles  a  flame  internal ; 

If  each  the  other  loves,  and  loves  himself  no  more, 
And  love  all  joy  but  its  own  love  resigns ; 
And  the  same  end,  the  will  of  both  must  choose ; 

And  thousand  proofs  like  these,  and  yet  a  thousand  more, 
Are  scarce  a  tithe  such  faith,  such  love  designs,  — 
Can  wrath  itself  such  loving  bondage  loose  ? 

E.  D.  C. 


88  SONETTI. 


XXXVIII. 

Rendete  a  gli  occhi  miei,  o  fonte  o  fiume, 
L'  onde  della  non  vostra  e  salda  vena, 
Che  piu  v'  innalza,  e  cresce,  e  con  piu  lena 
Che  non  e  1  vostro  natural  costume. 

E  tu,  folt'  air,  che  1  celeste  lume 

Tempri  a'  tristi  occhi,  de'  sospir  miei  piena, 
Eendigli  al  cor  mio  lasso,  e  rasserena 
Tua  scura  faccia  al  mio  visivo  acume. 

Renda  la  terra  i  passi  a  le  mie  piante, 
Ch'  ancor  1'  erba  germogli  che  gli  e  tolta ; 
E  '1  suono  Ecco,  gia  sorda  a'  miei  lamenti ; 

Gli  sguardi  a  gli  occhi  mie',  tue  luci  sante ; 
Ch'  io  possa  altra  bellezza  un'  altra  volta 
Amar,  po'  che  di  me  non  ti  contenti. 


SONNETS.  89 


XXXVIII. 

Give  back  unto  mine  eyes,  ye  fount  and  rill, 

Those  streams,  not  yours,  that  are  so  full  and  strong, 
That  swell  your  springs  and  roll  your  waves  along 
With  force  unwonted  in  your  native  hill ! 

And  thou,  dense  air,  weighed  with  my  sighs  so  chill, 
That  hidest  heaven's  own  light  thick  mists  among, 
Give  back  those  sighs  to  my  sad  heart,  nor  wrong 
My  visual  ray  with  thy  dark  face  of  ill ! 

Let  earth  give  back  the  footprints  that  I  wore, 
That  the  bare  grass  I  spoiled  may  sprout  again ; 
And  Echo,  now  grown  deaf,  my  cries  return ! 

Loved  eyes,  unto  mine  eyes  those  looks  restore, 
And  let  me  woo  another  not  in  vain, 
Since  how  to  please  thee  I  shall  never  learn  ! 

Symonds 


90  SONETTI. 


XL. 


Non  so  se  s'  e  la  desiata  luce 

Del  suo  primo  fattor,  che  Y  alma  sente ; 
0  se  dalla  memoria  della  gente 
Alcun'  altra  belta  nel  cor  traluce ; 

0  se  fama  o  se  sognio  alcun  prodduce 
Agli  occhi  manifesto,  al  cor  presente ; 
Pi  se  lasciando  un  non  so  che  cocente, 
Ch'  S  forse  or  quel  ch'  a  pianger  mi  conduce ; 

Quel  ch'  i'  sento  e  ch'  i'  cerco :  e  chi  mi  guidi 
Meco  non  e ;  ne  so  ben  veder  dove 
Trovar  mel  possa,  e  par  c'  altri  mel  mostri. 

Questo,  signior,  m'  avvien,  po'  ch'  i'  vi  vidi ; 
C  un  dolce  amaro,  un  si  e  no  mi  muove : 
Certo  saranno  stati  gli  occhi  vostri. 


SONNETS.  91 


XL. 


I  KNOW  not  if  it  be  the  imaged  light 

Of  its  first  Maker  which  the  soul  doth  feel, 

Or  if,  derived  from  memory  or  the  mind, 

Some  other  beauty  shine  into  the  heart ; 

Or  if  the  ardent  ray  of  its  first  state 

Doth  still  resplendent  beam  within  the  mind, 

Leaving  I  know  not  what  unrestful  pain, 

Which  is  perchance  the  cause  that  makes  me  weep. 

That  which  I  see  and  feel  is  not  with  me : 

I  have  no  guide,  nor  know  I  where  to  look 

To  find  one  ;  yet  it  seems  as  if  revealed. 

Thus,  lady,  have  I  been  since  I  beheld  you ; 

Moved  by  a  Yes  and  No,  —  sweet  bitterness  ! 

It  surely  was  the  effect  your  eyes  produced. 

Taylor. 


92  SONETTL 


XLIII. 

Perch£  Febo  non  tore'  e  non  distende 
D'  intorn'  a  questo  globo  fredd'  e  niolle 
Le  braccia  sua  lucenti,  el  vulgo  voile 
Notte  chiamar  quel  sol  che  non  comprende. 

E  tant'  e  debol,  che  s'  alcun  accende 
Un  picciol  torchio,  in  quella  parte  tolle 
La  vita  dalla  nott' ;  e  tant'  e  folle, 
Che  1'  esca  col  fucil  la  squarcia  e  fende. 

E  se  gli  e  pur  che  qualche  cosa  sia, 
Cert'  e  figlia  del  sol  e  della  terra ; 
Che  1'  un  tien  1'  ombra,  e  1'  altro  sol  la  cria. 

Ma  sia  che  vuol,  che  pur  chi  la  loda  erra ; 
Vedova,  sour',  in  tanta  gelosia, 
Ch'  una  lucciola  sol  gli  puo  far  guerra. 


SONNETS.  93 


XLIII. 

Because  Hyperion,  journeying  toward  his  hall, 

Turns  on  the  tearful  Earth  no  more  his  face, 

Denying  this  sad  mother  his  embrace, 

Why  should  we  "  night  "  yon  doubtful  daylight  call  ? 

'T  is  daylight  sick,  you  say,  —  so  weak  withal, 

One  little  candle  can  its  life  efface ; 

Nay,  this  brief  spark  can  thrust  it  out  of  place, 

Darting  from  flint,  on  tinder  frail  to  fall. 

Well,  name  her  what  you  will ;  to  me  't  is  clear 

Night  is  Earth's  daughter,  fathered  by  the  Sun. 

Be  it  so ;  but  never  call  her  fair  nor  dear : 

A  black-robed  widow  she,  —  even  such  an  one, 

So  jealous,  and  so  full  of  idle  fear, 

That  from  the  firefly's  brisk  assault  she  11  run. 

E.  B.  S. 


94  SONETTI. 


XLIV. 

0  nott',  o  dolce  tempo  benche  nero, 

(Con  pace  ogn'  opra  sempr'  al  fin  assalta) 
Ben  ved'  e  ben  intende  chi  t'  esalta ; 
E  chi  t'  onor',  ha  1'  intellett'  intero. 

Tu  mozzi  e  tronchi  ogni  stanco  pensiero  ; 
Che  T  umid'  ombra  ogni  quiet'  appalta : 
E  dall'  infima  parte  alia  piu  alta 
In  sogno  spesso  porti  ov'  ire  spero. 

0  ombra  del  morir,  per  cui  si  ferma 
Ogni  miseria  1'  alma  al  cor  nemica, 
Ultimo  delli  afflitti  e  buon  rimedio ; 

Tu  rendi  sana  nostra  earn'  inferma, 
Easciug'  i  pianti,  e  posi  ogni  fatica, 
E  furi  a  chi  ben  vive  ogn'  ir  e  tedio. 


SONNETS.  95 


XLIV. 

0  Night  !  0  season  fair,  though  black  thou  be, 
All  strife  in  thee  doth  find  its  peaceful  end ; 
Clear  eyes,  pure  hearts,  take  thee  to  be  their  friend, 
And  wholesome  are  his  thoughts  who  honors  thee. 
Thou  lopp'st  away  all  weary  cares  from  me ; 
While  dewy  shades  unbroken  quiet  lend, 
In  dreams  thou  leadest  me  where  I  would  wend, 
And  high  exalt'st  me,  from  low  passion  free. 
Image  of  death !  on  thee  the  deathless  soul 
Stays  every  sorrow  fatal  to  life's  peace. 
Irksome  no  more  the  good  man's  moments  flow : 
His  flesh  and  sense  infirm  thou  makest  whole, 
His  tears  thou  driest,  his  weary  labors  cease,  — 
Latest  and  best  release  from  haunting  woe. 

P.  B.  S. 


96  SONETTI. 


S'  i'  avessi  creduto  al  primo  sguardo 
Di  quest'  alma  fenice  al  caldo  sole 
Kinnovarmi  per  foco,  come  suole 
Nell'  ultima  vecchiezza,  ond'  io  tutt'  ardo; 

Qual  piu  veloce  cervio  o  lince  o  pardo 
Segue  1  suo  bene  e  f uggie  quel  che  dole, 
Agli  atti,  al  riso,  all'  oneste  parole 
Sarie  cors'  anzi,  ond'  or  son  presto  e  tardo. 

Ma  perche  piu  dolermi,  po'  ch'  1  veggio 
Negli  occhi  di  quest'  angel  lieto  e  solo 
Mie  pace,  mie  riposo  e  mie  salute  ? 

Forse  che  prima  sarie  stato  il  peggio 
Vederlo  udirlo,  s'  or  di  pari  a  volo 
Seco  m'  impenna  a  seguir  suo  virtute. 


SONNETS.  97 


Had  I  but  earlier  known  that  from  the  eyes 
Of  that  bright  soul  that  fires  me  like  the  sun, 
I  might  have  drawn  new  strength  my  race  to  rui^ 
Burning  as  burns  the  phoenix  ere  it  dies ; 

Even  as  the  stag,  or  lynx,  or  leopard  flies 
To  seek  his  pleasure  and  his  pain  to  shun, 
Each  word,  each  smile  of  her  would  I  have  won, 
Flying  where  now  sad  age  all  flight  denies. 

Yet  why  complain  ?     For  even  now  I  find 
In  that  glad  angel's  face,  so  full  of  rest, 
Health  and  content,  heart's  ease  and  peace  of  mind. 

Perchance  I  might  have  been  less  simply  blest 
Finding  her  sooner ;  if  't  is  age  alone 
That  lets  me  soar  with  her  to  seek  God's  throne. 

Symonds. 


98  SONETTI. 


LI. 


Tornami  al  tempo  allor  che  lenta  e  sciolta 
Al  cieco  ardor  m'  era  la  briglia  e  '1  freno ; 
Kendimi  1  volto  angelico  sereno, 
Onde  fu  seco  ogni  virtu  sepolta  ; 

E'  passi  spessi  e  con  fatica  molta, 
\     Che  son  si  lenti  a  chi  e  d'  anni  pieno ; 
Tornami  1'  acqua  e  1  foco  in  mezzo  il  seno, 
Se  vuo'  di  me  saziarti  un'  altra  volta. 

E  s'  egli  e  pur,  amor,  che  tu  sol  viva 
De'  dolci  amari  pianti  de'  mortali, 
D'  un  vecchio  stanco  oma'  puo'  goder  poco ; 

Che  1'  alma,  quasi  giunta  all'  altra  riva, 
Fa  scudo  a  tuo'  con  piu  pietosi  strali : 
E  d'  un  legni'  arso  fa  vil  pruova  il  foco. 


SONNETS.  99 


^S 


& 


Keturn  me  to  the  time  when  loose  the  curb, 
And  my  blind  ardor's  rein  was  unrestrained ; 
Restore  the  face,  angelic  and  serene, 
Which  took  from  Nature  all  she  had  of  charm ; 
Restore  the  steps,  wasted  with  toil  and  pain, 
That  are  so  slow  to  one  now  full  of  years ; 
Bring  back  the  tears,  the  fire  within  my  breast, 
If  thou  wouldst  see  me  glow  and  weep  again. 
Yet  if  't  is  true,  0  Love,  that  thou  dost  live 
Alone  upon  our  sweet  and  bitter  tears, 
What  canst  thou  hope  from  an  old  dying  man  ? 
Now  that  my  soul  has  almost  reached  the  shore, 
'T  is  time  to  prove  the  darts  of  other  love, 
And  become  food  of  a  more  worthy  fire. 

Taylor. 


100  SONETTI. 


LII. 


Non  vider  gli  occhi  miei  cosa  mortale 
Allor  che  ne'  bei  vostri  intera  pace 
Trovai ;  ma  dentro,  ov'  ogni  mal  displace, 
Chi  d'  amor  1'  alma  a  se  simil  m'  assale. 

E  se  creata  a  Dio  non  fusse  eguale, 

Altro  che  1  bel  di  fuor,  ch'  agli  occhi  piace, 
Piu  non  vorria ;  ma  perch'  e  si  fallace, 
Trascende  nella  forma  universale. 

Io  dico,  ch'  a  chi  vive  quel  che  muore 
Quetar  non  puo  disir ;  n&  par  s'  aspetti 
L'  eterno  al  tempo,  ove  altri  cangia  il  pelo. 

Voglia  sfrenata  el  senso  e,  non  amore, 
Che  T  alma  uccide ;  e  '1  nostro  fa  perfetti 
Gli  amici  qui,  ma  piu  per  morte  in  cielo. 


SONNETS.  101 


LIL 


No  mortal  object  did  these  eyes  behold 

When  first  they  met  the  placid  light  of  thine, 

And  my  soul  felt  her  destiny  divine, 

And  hope  of  endless  peace  in  me  grew  bold : 

Heaven-born,  the  soul  a  heavenward  course  must  hold. 

Beyond  the  visible  world  she  soars  to  seek 

(For  what  delights  the  sense  is  false  and  weak) 

Ideal  Form,  the  universal  mould. 

The  wise  man,  I  affirm,  can  find  no  rest 

In  that  which  perishes ;  nor  will  he  lend 

His  heart  to  aught  which  doth  on  time  depend. 

'T  is  sense,  unbridled  will,  and  not  true  love, 

That  kills  the  soul ;  love  betters  what  is  best, 

Even  here  below,  but  more  in  heaven  above. 

Wordsworth. 


102  80NJSTTI. 


LIII. 

Non  e  sempre  di  colpa  aspra  e  mortale 
D'  una  immensa  bellezza  un  fero  ardore, 
Se  poi  si  lascia  liquefatto  il  core, 
Che  'n  breve  il  penetri  un  divino  strale. 

Amore  isveglia  e  desta  e  impenna  1'  ale, 
Ne  1'  alto  vol  prescrive  al  van  furore  ; 
Qual  primo  grado,  ch'  al  suo  creatore, 
Di  quel  non  sazia,  1'  alma  ascende  e  sale. 

L'  amor  di  quel  ch'  io  parlo  in  alto  aspira; 
Donna,  e  dissimil  troppo ;  e  mal  conviensi 
Arder  di  quella  al  cor  saggio  e  virile. 

L'  un  tira  al  cielo,  e  1'  altro  in  terra  tira ; 
Nell'  alma  1'  un,  1'  altro  abita  ne'  sensi, 
E  1'  arco  tira  a  cose  basse  e  vile. 


SONNETS.  103 


LIIL 

It  is  not  always  vain  and  empty  sin 

To  love  a  glorious  beauty  with  great  love, 
If  thus  diviner  arrows  from  above 

May  penetrate  the  softened  heart  within. 

Love  wakes  and  moves  and  plumes  the  wing 
For  highest  flight ;  and  oft  its  burning  ray, 
As  a  first  step,  shall  on  its  upward  way 

The  aspiring  soul  to  its  Creator  bring. 

That  love  whereof  I  speak  aspires  on  high : 
Lady,  't  is  most  unlike  ;  for  suits  but  ill 

An  earth-born  flame  the  wise  and  manly  heart. 

One  draws  to  heaven,  but  one  on  earth  would  lie ; 
One  doth  the  soul,  one  but  the  senses,  fill, 


Bending  its  bow  to  base  and  villain  Art. 


E.  D.  C. 


104  SONETTL 


LIV. 

Veggio  nel  tuo  bel  viso,  signior  mio, 

Quel  che  narrar  mal  puossi  in  questa  vita 
L'  anima,  della  came  ancor  vestita, 
Con  esso  e  gia  piu  volte  asciesa  a  Dio. 

E  se  1  vulgo  malvagio  isciocco  e  rio 

Di  quel  che  sente,  altrui  segnia  e  addita ; 
Non  e  1'  intensa  voglia  men  gradita, 
L'  amor,  la  fede  e  1'  onesto  desio. 

A  quel  pietoso  fonte,  onde  sian  tutti, 
S'  assembra  ogni  belta  che  qua  si  vede, 
Piu  c'  altra  cosa,  alle  persone  accorte ; 

Ne  altro  saggio  abbian  ne  altri  frutti 

Del  cielo  in  terra  :  es'f  v'  amo  con  fede, 
Trascendo  a  Dio,  e  fo  dolce  la  morte. 


SONNETS.  105 


LIV. 

Bead  by  my  thoughts,  thy  features  seem  to  shine 

With  that  which  human  words  can  ill  explain, 

A  soul  still  compassed  with  its  earthly  chain, 

But  beauteous  bright  and  fired  with  Love  divine ; 

And  if  the  base  and  envious  world  malign 

And  point  with  scorn  at  those  who  think  like  thee, 

Unchanging  still  with  firm  fidelity, 

My  heart,  my  faith,  my  preference,  are  thine. 

Deep  in  that  source  whence  our  existence  flows 

Beauty's  transcendent  forms  are  all  combined 

Beyond  aught  other  attributes  of  mind. 

No  trace  of  heaven  on  earth  we  elsewhere  meet ; 

And  he  who  faithful  love  on  thee  bestows 

Aspires  to  God,  and  thinks  of  death  as  sweet. 

Harford. 


106  SONBTTL 


LV. 

Tu  sa'  ch'  i'  so,  signior  mie,  che  tu  sai 
Ch'  i'  venni  per  goderti  piu  da  presso ; 
E  sai  ch'  i'  so,  che  tu  sa'  ch'  i'  son  desso. 
A  che  piu  indugio  a  salutarci  omai  ? 

Se  vera  e  la  speranza  che  mi  dai, 

Se  vero  e  '1  buon  desio  che  in'  e  concesso, 
Rompasi  il  mur  frail'  uno  e  V  altra  messo 
Che  doppia  forza  hann'  i  celati  guai. 

S'  i'  amo  sol  di  te,  signior  mie  caro, 
Quel  che  di  te  piu  ami,  non  ti  sdegni ; 
Che  1'  un  dell'  altro  spirto  s'  innamora. 

Quel  che  nel  tuo  bel  volto  bramo  e  'mparo, 
E  mal  compres'  e  dagli  umani  ingegni, 
Chi  '1  vuol  veder,  convien  che  prima  mora. 


SONNETS.  107 


LV. 


Thou  knowest,  love,  I  know  that  thou  dost  know 
That  I  am  here  more  near  to  thee  to  be, 
And  knowest  that  I  know  thou  knowest  me : 
What  means  it  then  that  we  are  sundered  so  ? 

If  they  are  true,  these  hopes  that  from  thee  flow, 
If  it  is  real,  this  sweet  expectancy, 
Break  down  the  wall  that  stands  'twixt  me  and  thee ; 
For  pain  in  prison  pent  hath  double  woe. 

Because  in  thee  I  love,  0  my  loved  lord, 

What  thou  best  lovest,  be  not  therefore  stern : 
Souls  burn  for  souls,  spirits  to  spirits  cry ! 

I  seek  the  splendor  in  thy  fair  face  stored ; 
Yet  living  man  that  beauty  scarce  can  learn, 
And  he  who  fain  would  find  it,  first  must  die. 

Symonds. 


108  SONETTI. 


LVI. 

Per  ritornar  la  donde  venne  fora, 

L'  immortal  forma  al  tuo  career  terreno 
Venne  com'  angel  di  pieta  si  pieno 

'    Che  sana  ogn'  intelletto,  e  1  mondo  onora. 

Questo  sol  m'  arde,  e  questo  m'  innamora ; 
Non  pur  di  fora  il  tuo  volto  sereno  : 
Ch'  amor  non  gia  di  cosa  che  vien  meno 
Tien  ferma  speme,  in  cu'  virtu  dimora. 

Ne  altro  avvien  di  cose  altere  e  nuove 
In  cui  si  preme  la  natura ;  e  1  cielo 
E  ch'  a  lor  parto  largo  s'  apparecchia. 

Ne  Dio,  suo  grazia,  mi  si  mostra  altrove, 
Piu  che  'n  alcun  leggiadro  e  mortal  velo ; 
E  quel  sol  amo,  perche  'n  quel  si  specchia. 


SONNETS.  109 


LVI. 

As  one  who  will  reseek  her  home  of  light, 

Thy  form  immortal  to  this  prison-house 

Descended,  like  an  angel  piteous, 

To  heal  all  hearts  and  make  the  whole  world  bright. 
'T  is  this  that  thralls  my  soul  in  love's  delight, 

Not  thy  clear  face  of  beauty  glorious ; 

For  he  who  harbors  virtue  still  will  choose 
I  To  love  what  neither  years  nor  death  can  blight. 
So  fares  it  ever  with  things  high  and  rare 

Wrought  in  the  sweat  of  nature  ;  heaven  above 

Showers  on  their  birth  the  blessings  of  her  prime  : 
Nor  hath  God  deigned  to  show  himself  elsewhere 

More  clearly  than  in  human  forms  sublime ; 

Which,  since  they  image  him,  alone  I  love. 

Symonds. 


HO  SONETTI. 


LIX. 

Non  piu  che  '1  foco  il  fabbro  il  ferro  istende 
Al  concetto  suo  caro  e  bel  lavoro ; 
Ne  senza  foco  alcuno  artista  1'  oro 
Al  sommo  grado  suo  raffina  e  rende : 

Ne  1'  unica  fenice  se  riprende, 

Se  non  prim'  arsa.     Ond'  io,  s'  ardendo  moro, 

Spero  piu  chiar  resurger  tra  coloro 

Che  morte  accrescie,  e  1  tempo  non  offende. 

Del  foco  di  cli'  i'  parlo  ho  gran  ventura 
C  ancor  per  rinnovarmi  abb'  in  me  loco, 
Sendo  gia  quasi  infra  '1  numer  de'  morti. 

O  ver  s*  al  cielo  asciende  per  natura 

Al  suo  elemento,  e  ch'  io  converso  in  foco 
Sie,  come  fie  che  seco  non  mi  porti  ? 


SONNETS.  HI 


LIX. 

By  fire  the  artist  moulds  the  ductile  steel 
Into  the  beauteous  forms  his  thought  defines ; 
And  fire  expels  the  alloys,  which  else  conceal 
The  gold's  pure  lustre,  and  its  mass  refines. 
Nor  can  the  Phoenix,  matchless  bird,  resume 
Its  plumes  except  it  burn.     Be  it  my  doom 
Thus  into  death  to  burn,  since  Heaven  assigns 
Triumph  o'er  death  to  such  in  realms  of  light. 

0  death  how  sweet !  0  conflagration  bright ! 
If  thus  resolved  to  ashes,  upward  springs 
The  soul,  no  more  a  mortal  home  to  claim ; 
Or  rather,  if  transmuted  into  flame, 

Which  has  by  Nature's  law  a  heavenward  aim, 

1  'm  wafted  thither  on  immortal  wings. 

Harford. 


112  SONETTI. 


LX. 

Ben  puo  talor  col  mio  ardente  desio 
Salir  la  speme,  e  non  esser  fallace ; 
Che  s'  ogni  nostro  affetto  al  ciel  displace, 
A  che  fin  fatto  avrebbe  il  mondo  Dio  ? 

Qual  piu  giusta  cagion  dell'  amarti  io 
E,  che  dar  gloria  a  quell'  eterna  pace 
Onde  pende  il  divin  che  di  te  piace, 
E  ch'  ogni  cor  gentil  fa  casto  e  pio  ? 

Fallace  speme  ha  sol  1'  amor,  che  muore 
Con  la  belta  ch'  ogni  momento  scema, 
Ond'  e  suggetta  al  variar  d'  un  bel  viso. 

Dolce  e  ben  quella  in  un  pudico  core 

Che  per  cangiar  di  scorza  o  d'  ora  estrema 
Non  manca,  e  qui  caparra  il  paradiso. 


SONNETS.  113 


LX. 


Yes  !  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep  pace, 

And  I  be  undeluded,  unbetrayed ; 

For  if  of  our  affections  none  find  grace 

In  sight  of  Heaven,  then  wherefore  hath  God  made 

The  world  which  we  inhabit  ?     Better  plea 

Love  cannot  have,  than  that  in  loving  thee 

Glory  to  that  eternal  Peace  is  paid, 

Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts 

As  hallows  and  makes  pure  all  gentle  hearts. 

His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whose  love  dies 

With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  hour ; 

But  in  chaste  hearts,  uninfluenced  by  the  power 

Of  outward  change,  there  blooms  a  deathless  flower, 

That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  paradise. 

Wordsworth. 


114  SONETTL 


LXIL 
IN  MOKTE  DI  VITTOKIA  COLONNA. 

Quand'  el  ministro  de'  sospir  me'  tanti 
Al  mondo,  agli  occhi  mei,  a  se  si  tolse ; 
Natura,  che  fra  noi  degnar  lo  volse, 
Resto  in  vergognia,  e  chi  lo  vide  in  pianti. 

Ma  non  come  degli  altri  oggi  si  vanti 

Del  sol  del  sol,  ch'  allor  ci  spense  e  tolse, 
Morte,  c'  amor  ne  vinse,  e  farlo  il  tolse 
In  terra  vivo  e  'n  ciel  fra  gli  altri  santi. 

Cosi  credette  morte  iniqua  e  rea 
Finir  il  suon  delle  virtute  sparte, 
E  1'  alma  che  men  bella  esser  potea. 

Contrari  effetti  alluminan  le  carte 
Di  vita  piu  che  'n  vita  non  solea, 
E  morto  ha  1  ciel,  c'  allor  non  avea  parte. 


SONNETS.  115 


LXIL 
ON  THE  DEATH   OF  VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

When  she  who  was  the  cause  of  all  my  sighs 
Departed  from  the  world,  herself,  and  me, 
Nature,  who  fain  had  made  us  worthy  her, 
Rested  ashamed,  and  who  had  seen  her  wept. 
But  let  not  boastful  Death,  who  quenched  the  light 
Of  this  our  sun  of  suns,  be  all  too  vain ; 
Since  love  hath  conquered  him,  and  let  her  live, 
Both  here  on  earth  and  'mong  the  saints  above. 
It  seemed  a  cruel  and  unrighteous  thing 
For  Death  to  make  her  scattered  virtues  dumb, 
And  bear  her  soul  where  it  might  show  less  fair. 
But  (contradiction  strange  !)  her  writings  now 
Make  her  more  living  than  she  was  in  life ; 
And  heaven  receives  her  dead,  where  she  had  else  no  part 

E.  C. 


116  SONETTL 


LXV. 
A  GIOKGIO   VASAKI. 

[1554.] 

Giunto  e  gia  '1  corso  della  vita  mia, 
Con  tempestoso  mar  per  fragil  barca, 
Al  comun  porto,  ov'  a  render  si  varca 
Conto  e  ragion  d'  ogn'  opra  trista  e  pia. 

Onde  1'  affettuosa  fantasia, 

Che  T  arte  mi  fece  idol'  e  monarca, 
Conosco  or  ben  quant'  era  d'  error  carca, 
E  quel  ch'  a  mal  suo  grado  ogn'  uom  desia. 

Gli  amorosi  pensier,  gia  vani  e  lieti, 

Che  fieno  or,  s'  a  duo  morte  m'  avvicino  ? 
D'  una  so  1  certo,  e  1'  altra  mi  minaccia. 

Ne  pinger  ne  scolpir  fia  piu  che  quieti 
L'  anima  volta  a  quell'  Amor  divino 
Ch'  aperse,  a  prender  noi,  in  croce  le  braccia 


SONNETS.  117 


LXV. 
TO  GIOEGIO  VASAKI. 

[1554.] 

Well-nigh  the  voyage  now  is  overpast, 

And  my  frail  bark,  through  troubled  seas  and  rude, 

Draws  near  that  common  haven  where  at  last 

Of  every  action,  be  it  evil  or  good, 

Must  due  account  be  rendered.     Well  I  know 

How  vain  will  then  appear  that  favored  art, 

Sol^idol  long,  and  monarch  of  my  heart ; 

For  all  is  vain  that  man  desires  below. 

And  now  remorseful  thoughts  the  past  upbraid, 

And  fear  of  twofold  death  my  soul  alarms,  — 

That  which  must  come,  and  that  beyond  the  grave. 

Picture  and  sculpture  lose  their  feeble  charms, 

And  to  that  Love  divine  I  turn  for  aid 

Who  from  the  cross  extends  his  arms  to  save. 

Hazlitt. 


118  SONETTI. 


LXVIL 

Non  e  pm  bassa  o  vil  cosa  terrena 

Che  quel  che,  senza  te,  mi  sen  to  e  sono ; 
Ond'  all'  alto  desir  chiede  perdono 
La  debile  mie  propia  e  stanca  lena. 

Deh  porgi,  Signor  mio,  quella  catena 
Che  seco  annoda  ogni  celeste  dono ; 
La  fede  dico,  a  che  mi  stringo  e  sprono ; 
Ne,  mie  colpa,  n'  ho  grazia  intiera  e  piena. 

Tanto  mi  fie  maggior  quant'  e  piu  raro 
II  don  de'  doni ;  e  maggior  fia,  se  senza, 
Pace  e  contento  il  mondo  in  se  non  have. 

Po'  che  non  fusti  del  tuo  sangue  avaro, 
Che  sara  di  tal  don  la  tua  clemenza, 
Se  1  ciel  non  s'  apre  a  noi  con  altra  chiave  ? 


SONNETS.  H9 


LXVIL 

No  earthly  object  is  more  base  and  vile 

Than  I,  without  Thee,  miserable  am. 

My  spirit  now,  midst  errors  multiform, 

Weak,  wearied,  and  infirm,  pardon  implores. 

O  Lord  most  high !  extend  to  me  that  chain 

Which  with  itself  links  every  gift  divine : 

Chiefest  to  faith  I  bid  my  soul  aspire, 

Flying  from  sense,  whose  path  conducts  to  death. 

The  rarer  be  this  gift  of  gifts,  the  more 

May  it  to  me  abound ;  and  still  the  more, 

Since  the  world  yields  not  true  content  and  peace. 

By  faith  alone  the  fount  of  bitter  tears 

Can  spring  within  my  heart,  made  penitent : 

No  other  key  unlocks  the  gate  of  heaven. 

Harford. 


120  SONETTI. 


LXX. 

Carico  d'  anni  e  di  peccati  pieno, 
E  col  tristo  uso  radicato  e  forte, 
Vicin  mi  veggio  a  1'  una  e  1'  altra  morte, 
E  parte  1  cor  nutrisco  di  veleno. 

Ne  propie  forze  ho,  c'  al  bisogno  sieno 
Per  cangiar  vita,  amor,  costume  o  sorte, 
Senza  le  tuo  divine  e  chiare  scorte, 
Piu  che  da  noi,  per  noi  qui  guida  e  freno. 

Non  basta,  Signor  mio,  che  tu  m'  invogli 
Di  ritornar  la  dove  1'  alma  sia, 
Non  come  prima  di  nulla,  creata. 

Anzi  che  del  mortal  la  privi  e  spogli, 
Prego  m'  ammezzi  1'  alta  e  erta  via, 
E  fie  piu  chiara  e  certa  la  tornata. 


SONNETS.  121 


LXX. 

Borne  down  by  weight  of  years,  and  full  of  sin, 
And  in  bad  habits  rooted  and  confirmed, 
To  one  and  t'  other  death  I  'm  drawing  near, 
And  still  on  poison  partly  feed  myself ; 
Nor  have  I,  prompt  for  use,  the  needful  power 
My  life,  love,  manners,  and  my  lot  to  change 
Without  thy  aid  enlightening  and  divine, 
To  my  fallacious  course  a  guide  and  curb. 
O  Lord !  but  thou  must  do  for  me  far  more 
Than  to  invite  my  soul  there  to  return, 
Where  out  of  nothing  it  was  formed  by  thee. 
Before  this  mortal  frame  thou  layest  low, 
So  by  repentance  smooth  for  me  the  way, 
That  this  return  to  thee  be  sure  and  blest. 

Harford. 


122  SONETTL 


LXXII. 

Deh  fammiti  vedere  in  ogni  loco ! 
Se  da  mortal  bellezza  arder  mi  sento, 
A  presso  al  tuo  mi  sara  foco  ispento, 
E  io  nel  tuo  saro,  com'  ero,  in  foco. 

Signor  mie  caro,  i'  te  sol  chiamo  e  'nvoco 
Contra  1'  inutil  mie  cieco  tormento : 
Tu  sol  puo'  rinnovarmi  fuora  e  drento 
Le  voglie,  e  1  senno,  e  '1  valor  lento  e  poco. 

Tu  desti  al  tempo  ancor  quest'  alma  diva, 
E  'n  questa  spoglia  ancor  fragiT  e  stanca 
L'  incarcerasti,  e  con  fiero  destino. 

Che  poss'  io  altro,  che  cosi  non  viva  ? 
Ogni  ben  senza  te,  Signor,  mi  manca. 

[  II  cangiar  sorte  e  sol  poter  divino. 


SONNETS.  123 


LXXIL 

Oh,  make  me  see  thee,  Lord,  in  every  place ! 
If  burns  my  heart,  to  mortal  beauty  bent, 
Near  thine  will  be  that  earthly  ardor  spent, 

And  I  aflame  again  with  heavenly  grace. 

Oh,  my  dear  Lord,  thee  I  evoke  and  call 
Against  my  blind  and  unavailing  pain 
Without,  within.     Thou  canst  renew  again 

My  will,  my  sense,  my  strength  so  prone  to  fall ! 

Thou  gavest  once  to  time  this  spirit  divine, 
Clothed  in  this  frail  and  heavy  dress ; 
Imprisoned  here,  and  subject  unto  law, 

What  can  I  do  to  change  this  state  of  mine  ? 
Nought  without  thee  avails  my  heart  to  bless : 
A  power  divine  alone  for  me  new  lot  can  draw. 

E.  D.  C. 


124  SONETTI. 


LXXIII. 

Scarco  d'  un'  importuna  e  grave  salma, 
Signor  mio  caro,  e  dal  mondo  disciolto, 
Qual  fragil  legno,  a  te  stanco  mi  volto 
Dall'  orribil  procella  in  dolce  calma. 

Le  spine,  e'  chiodi,  e  Y  un'  e  1'  altra  palma 
Col  tuo  benigno  umil  pietoso  volto 
Prometton  grazia  di  pentirsi  molto, 
E  speme  di  salute  alia  trist'  alma. 

Non  mirin  con  giustizia  i  tuoi  santi  occhi 
II  mio  passato,  e  '1  gastigato  orecchio 
Non  tenda  a  quello  il  tuo  braccio  severo. 

Tuo  sangue  sol  mie  colpe  lavi  e  tocclii, 
E  piu  abbondi,  quant'  io  son  piu  vecchio, 
Di  pront'  aita  e  di  perdon'  intero. 


SONNETS.  125 


LXXIII. 

Eternal  Lord !  eased  of  a  cumbrous  load, 
And  loosened  from  the  world,  I  turn  to  thee ; 
Shun,  like  a  shattered  bark,  the  storm,  and  flee 
To  thy  protection  for  a  safe  abode. 
The  crown  of  thorns,  hands  pierced  upon  the  tree, 
The  meek,  benign,  and  lacerated  face, 
To  a  sincere  repentance  promised  grace, 
To  the  sad  soul  give  hope  of  pardon  free. 
With  justice  mark  not  thou,  0  Light  divine, 
My  fault,  nor  hear  it  with  thy  sacred  ear ; 
Neither  put  forth  that  way  thy  arm  severe ; 
Wash  with  thy  blood  my  sins ;  thereto  incline 
More  readily  the  more  my  years  require 
Help,  and  forgiveness  speedy  and  entire. 

Wordsworth. 


126  SONETTI. 


LXXV. 

Yorrei  voler,  Signior,  quel  ch'  io  non  voglio : 
Tra  1  foco  e  1  cor  di  iaccia  un  vel  s'  asconde, 
Che  1  foco  ammorza ;  onde  non  corrisponde 
La  penna  all'  opre,  e  fa  bugiardo  1  foglio. 

I'  t'  amo  con  la  lingua,  e  poi  mi  doglio ; 

Ch'  amor  non  giungie  al  cor,  ne  so  ben  onde 
Apra  T  uscio  alia  grazia,  die  s'  infonde 
Nel  cor,  che  scacci  ogni  spietato  orgoglio. 

Squarcia  '1  vel  tu,  Signior,  rompi  quel  muro 
Che  con  la  suo  durezza  ne  ritarda 
II  sol  della  tuo  luce  al  mondo  spenta. 

Manda  1  preditto  lume  a  noi  venturo 
Alia  tuo  bella  sposa,  accio  ch'  io  arda 
E  te  senz'  alcun  dubbio  il  cor  sol  senta. 


BONNETS.  127 


LXXV. 

Fain  would  I  will,  0  Lord,  what  I  'm  not  willing! 
'Twixt  fire  and  heart  a  veil  of  ice  is  hidden, 
Damping  the  fire ;  agreement  thus  forbidden 

Between  my  pen  and  works  makes  false  each  leaf. 
I  love  thee  with  the  tongue,  then  count  it  grief 
That  love  not  reaches  to  the  heart ;  since  so  is  hid 
The  door  to  grace,  whereby  the  heart  were  rid 
Of  impious  pride  its  inmost  temple  filling. 
Eend  thou  the  veil,  0  Lord,  break  down  this  wall, 
Which  by  its  hardness  keeps  retarding  so 
Thy  holy  sunshine,  in  the  world  gone  out. 
Oh,  send  the  light,  so  long  foretold  for  all, 
To  thy  fair  bride,  that  so  my  soul  may  glow, 
And  feel  thee  inwardly,  and  never  doubt ! 

J.  S.  D. 


128  SONETTI. 


LXXVII. 

Mentre  m'  attrista  e  duol,  parte  m'  e  caro 
II  pensier  del  passato,  s'  al  cor  riede 
Mie  miserie  e  peccati,  e  ragion  chiede 
Del  tempo  perso,  onde  non  e  riparo. 

Caro  m'  e  sol,  perch'  anzi  morte  imparo 
Quant'  ogni  uman  diletto  ha  corta  fede ; 
Tristo  m'  e,  ch'  a  trovar  grazia  e  mercede 
Nell'  ultim'  ora  e  pur  dubbioso  e  raro. 

Che,  benche  alle  proruesse  tue  s'  attenda, 
Creder,  Signore,  e  troppo  grande  ardire 
Ch'  ogni  gran  tardita  pieta  perdoni. 

Ma  pur  par  dal  tuo  sangue  si  comprenda 
Quanto  infinite  fu  '1  tuo  gran  martire, 
Senza  misura  sien  tuo'  cari  doni. 


SONNETS.  129 


LXXVIL 

Much  it  afflicts,  and  yet  it  soothes  my  mind 
To  dwell  upon  each  thought  of  Time  gone  hy, 
Which  memory  recalls ;  though  reason  mourns 
Th'  irreparable  ill  of  wasted  hours. 
It  soothes  me,  when  the  thought  of  death  suggests 
How  brief,  how  transient,  is  each  human  joy ; 
It  grieves  me  since  I  scarcely  dare  to  hope 
Pardon  and  grace,  thus  late,  for  all  my  sins. 
Despite  thy  promises,  0  Lord,  't  would  seem 
Too  much  to  hope  that  even  love  like  thine 
Can  overlook  my  countless  wanderings ; 
And  yet  thy  blood  helps  us  to  comprehend 
That  if  thy  pangs  for  us  were  measureless, 
No  less  beyond  all  measure  is  thy  grace. 

Harford. 


130  SONETTI. 


LXXXI. 

(Imperfetto.) 

La  f orza  d'  un  bel  viso  a  che  mi  sprona  ? 
(Ch*  altro  non  e  ch'  al  mondo  mi  diletti) 
Ascender  vivo  fra  gli  spirti  eletti, 
Per  grazia  tal,  ch'  ogn'  altra  par  men  buona. 

Se  ben  col  suo  fattor  V  opra  consuona, 
Che  colpa  vuol  giustizia  ch'  io  n'  aspetti, 
S'  amo,  anzi  ardo  ?  e  per  divin  concetti, 
Onoro  e  stimo  ogni  gentil  persona  ? 


SONNETS.  131 


LXXXI. 

(Imperfect.) 

Eapt  above  earth  by  power  of  one  fair  face, 
Hers  in  whose  sway  alone  my  heart  delights, 
I  mingle  with  the  blest  on  those  pure  heights 
Where  man,  yet  mortal,  rarely  finds  a  place. 
With  Him  who  made  the  work  that  work  accords 
So  well,  that  by  its  help  and  through  his  grace 
I  raise  my  thoughts,  inform  my  deeds  and  words, 
Clasping  her  beauty  in  my  soul's  embrace. 
[Thus,  if  from  two  fair  eyes  mine  cannot  turn, 
I  feel  how  in  their  presence  doth  abide 
Light  which  to  God  is  both  the  way  and  guide  ; 
And,  kindling  at  their  lustre,  if  I  burn, 
My  noble  fire  emits  the  joyful  ray 
That  through  the  realms  of  glory  shines  for  aye.] 

Wordsworth. 


132  SONETTI. 


LXXXIX. 

(Imperfetto.) 

Ben  sarien  dolce  le  preghiere  mie, 
Se  virtu  mi  prestassi  da  pregarte : 
Nel  mio  fragil  terren  non  e  gia  parte 
Da  frutto  buon,  che  da  se  nato  sie. 

Tu  sol  se'  seme  d'  opre  caste  e  pie, 
Che  la  germoglian  dove  ne  fa'  parte : 
Nessun  proprio  valor  puo  seguitarte, 
Se  no  gli  mostri  le  tue  sante  vie. 


SONNETS.  133 


LXXXIX. 

(Imperfect.) 

The  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed, 
If  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I  pray : 
My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay, 
That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed. 
Of  good  and  pious  works  thou  art  the  seed, 
That  quickens  only  where  thou  sayest  it  may ; 
Unless  thou  show  to  us  thine  own  true  way, 
No  man  can  find  it :  Father !  thou  must  lead. 
[Bo  thou,  then,  hreathe  those  thoughts  into  my  mind 
By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred, 
That  in  thy  holy  footsteps  I  may  tread  ; 
The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  thou  unbind, 
lliat  I  may  have  the  povjer  to  sing  of  thee, 
And  sound  thy  praises  everlastingly.'] 

Wordsworth. 


CANZONI. 


III. 


Ohime,  ohime !  ch'  io  son  tradito 

Da'  giorni  miei  fugaci,  e  dallo  specchio 
Che  '1  ver  dice  a  ciascun  che  fiso  '1  guarda, 
Cosi  n'  avvien  chi  troppo  al  fin  ritarda ; 
Com'  ho  fatt'  io,  che  1  tempo  m'  e  fuggito ; 
Si  trova  come  me  'n  un  giorno  vecchio. 
Ne  mi  posso  pentir,  ne  m'  apparecchio, 
Ne  mi  consiglio,  con  la  morte  appresso. 
Nemico  di  me  stesso, 
Inutilmente  i  pianti  e'  sospir  verso  : 
Che  none  danno  pari  al  tempo  perso. 


CANZONETS. 


III. 


Ah,  woe  is  me !    Alas  !  when  I  revolve 
My  years  gone  by,  wearied,  I  find  not  one 
Wherein  to  call  a  single  day  my  own. 
Fallacious  hopes,  desires  as  vain,  and  thoughts 
Of  love  compounded  and  of  lover's  woes 
(No  mortal  joy  has  novelty  for  me), 
Make  up  the  sum ;  I  know,  I  feel,  't  is  so. 
Thus  have  I  ever  strayed  from  Truth  and  Good : 
Where'er  I  go,  shifting  from  right  to  left, 
Denser  the  shades,  less  bright  the  sun  appears, 
And  I,  infirm  and  worn,  am  nigh  to  fall. 

Harford. 


STANZE. 


II. 
ALLA  SUA  DONNA 

1. 

Io  crederrei,  se  tu  fussi  di  sasso, 
Amarti  con  tal  fede,  ch'  i'  potrei 
Farti  meco  venir  piu  che  di  passo ; 
Se  fussi  morto,  parlar  ti  farei ; 
Se  fussi  in  ciel,  ti  tirerei  a  basso 
Co'  pianti  co'  sospir  co'  priegi  miei : 
Sendo  vivo  e  di  came,  e  qui  tra  noi, 
Chi  t'  ama  e  serve  che  de'  creder  poi  ? 


STANZAS. 


II. 
TO  HIS  LADY. 


Methinks,  though  thou  wert  stone,  the  charm  I  'd  know 
(So  strong  and  faithful  is  my  love  for  thee) 
To  lead  thee  with  me  wheresoe'er  I  go ; 
If  thou  wert  dead,  I  'd  make  thee  speak  to  me ; 
Wert  thou  in  heaven,  I  'd  draw  thee  down  below 
With  sighs,  and  prayers,  and  tears  of  agony : 
But  since  as  living  flesh  thou  here  dost  dwell, 
What  hopes  may  not  be  his  who  loves  thee  well  ? 

E.  C. 


CAPITOLI. 


III. 


IN  MORTE  DI  LODOVICO  BUONARROTI  SUO 
PADRE, 

ESSENDO  GIA  MORTO  BUONARROTO  SUO  FRATELLO. 
(Imperfetto. ) 

Ancor  che  1  cor  gia  mi  premesse  tanto, 
Per  mie  scampo  credendo  il  gran  dolore 
N'  uscissi  con  le  lacrime  e  col  pianto ; 

Fortuna  al  fonte  di  cotale  umore 

Le  radice  e  le  vene  ingrassa  e  'mprngua 
Per  morte,  e  non  per  pena  o  duol  minore, 

Col  tuo  partire  ;  onde  convien  destingua 
Dal  figlio  prima  e  tu  morto  dipoi, 
Del  quale  or  parlo,  pianto,  penna  e  lingua. 

L'  un  m'  era  irate,,  e  tu  ..-padre,  di  uoi ; 
L'  amore  a  quello,  a  te  '1  debito  strignie : 
Non  so  qual  pena  piu  m'  afligga  o  noi. 


TRIPLETS. 


III. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  FATHEK,  LODOYICO 
BUONAEEOTI, 

WHICH  FOLLOWED  SOON  ON  THAT  OF  HIS   BROTHER  [l534  OR  1536]. 
(Imperfect.) 

Deep  grief  such  woe  unto  my  heart  did  give, 

I  thought  it  wept  the  bitter  pain  away, 

And  tears  and  moans  would  let  my  spirit  live. 

But  fate  renews  the  fount  of  grief  to-day, 
And  feeds  each  hidden  root  and  secret  vein 
By  death  that  doth  still  harder  burden  lay. 

I  of  thy  parting  speak ;  and  yet  again 

For  him,  of  thee  who  later  left  me  here, 

My  tongue  and  pen  shall  speak  the  separate  pain. 

He  was  my  brother,  thou  our  father  dear ; 

Love  clung  to  him  and  duty  bound  to  thee, 

'  Nor  can  I  tell  which  loss  I  hold  most  near. 


140  CAPITOLI. 

La  memoria  '1  fratel  pur  mi  dipignie, 
E  te  sculpiscie  vivo  in  mezzo  '1  core, 
E  piu  ch'  allor  pieta  1  volto  mi  tignie. 

Pur  mi  quieta,  che  1  debito  c'  allore 
Pago  '1  mie  frate  acerbo,  e  tu  maturo : 
|  Che  manco  duole  altrui  chi  vecchio  muore. 

Tanto  all'  increscitor  men  aspro  e  duro 
Esser  die  1  caso,  quant'  e  piu  necesse  ; 
La  dove  '1  ver  dal  senso  e  piu  sicuro. 

Ma  chi  e  quel  che  morto  non  piangiesse 
Suo  caro  padre,  c'  ha  veder  non  mai 
Quel  che  vedea  infinite  volte  o  spesse  ? 

Nostri  intensi  dolori  e  nostri  guai 
Son  come  piu  e  men  ciascun  gli  sente. 
Quant'  in  me  posson,  tu  Signior  tel  sai. 

E  se  ben  Y  alma  alia  ragion  consente, 
Tien  tanto  in  collo,  che  vie  piu  abbondo 
Po'  doppo  quella  in  esser  piu  dolente. 

E  se  '1  pensier,  nel  quale  i'  mi  profondo, 
Non  fussi  che  '1  ben  morto  in  ciel  si  ridi 
Del  timor  del  morire  in  questo  mondo  ; 


TRIPLETS.  141 

Painted  like  life  my  brother  stands  to  me ; 

Thou  art  a  sculptured  image  in  my  heart, 

And  most  for  thee  my  cheek  is  tinged  with  piety. 


Thus  am  I  soothed ;  death  early  claimed  the  part 
My  brother  owed,  but  in  full  ripeness  thou. 
He  grieves  us  less  who  doth  in  age  depart. 

Less  hard  and  sharp  it  is  to  death  to  bow 
As  growing  age  longs  for  its  needful  sleep, 
Where  true  life  is,  safe  from  the  senses  now. 

Ah !  who  is  he  who  sadly  would  not  weep 

To  see  the  father  dead  he  held  so  dear, 

He  ever,  living  still,  in  frequent  sight  did  keep  ? 

Our  griefs  and  woes  to  each  alone  are  clear, 
As  more  or  less  he  feels  their  fatal  power ; 
Thou  knowest,  Lord !  to  me  the  loss  how  near. 

Though  reason  holds  my  soul  some  calmer  hour, 
'T  is  by  such  hard  constraint  I  bind  my  grief ; 
The  lifted  clouds  again  more  darkly  lower. 

And  but  this  thought  can  give  my  heart  relief, 
That  he  died  well,  and,  resting,  smiles  in  heaven 
On  death  that  brought  in  life  a  pain  so  brief. 


142  GAPITOLI. 

Cresciere'  1  duol :  ma'  dolorosi  stridi 
Temprati  son  d'  una  credenza  ferma, 
Che  '1  ben  vissuto,  a  morte  me'  s'  annidL 

Nostro  intelletto  dalla  carne  inferma 
ii  tanto  oppresso,  che  '1  morir  piu  spiace 
Quanto  piu  1  falso  persuaso  afferma. 

Novanta  volte  el  sol  suo  chiara  face 
Prim'  ha  nell'  ociean  bagniata  e  molle, 
Che  tu  sie  giunto  alia  divina  pace. 

Or  che  nostra  miseria  el  ciel  ti  tolle, 
Increscati  di  me  che  morto  vivo, 
Come  tuo  mezzo  qui  nascier  mi  voile. 

Tu  se'  del  morir  morto  e  fatto  divo, 
Ne  tern'  or  piu  cangiar  vita  ne  voglia ; 
Che  quasi  senza  invidia  non  lo  scrivo. 

Fortuna  e  1  tempo  dentro  a  vostra  soglia 
Non  tenta  trapassar,  per  cui  s'  adduce 
Fra  no'  dubbia  letizia  e  cierta  doglia. 

Nube  non  e  che  scuri  vostra  luce, 
L'  ore  distinte  a  voi  non  fanno  forza, 
Caso  o  necessita  non  vi  conduce. 


TRIPLETS.  143 

For  deeper  grief  would  grow  and  crush  me  even, 
Did  not  firm  faith  convince  my  inmost  mind, 
Living  well  here,  he  nests  himself  in  Heaven. 

So  closely  doth  the  flesh  the  spirit  bind, 
That  death  the  weary  heart  can  most  oppress 
When  erring  sense  forbids  the  truth  to  find. 

Full  ninety  times  in  ocean's  deep  recess 
Of  cooling  shade,  the  sun  its  torch  had  laid, 
Ere  peace  Divine  thy  weary  heart  did  bless. 

Oh,  pity  me  who  now  art  left  here  dead ! 

0  thou  through  whom  Heaven  willed  me  to  be  born, 
Since  Heaven  at  last  thy  suffering  life  has  stayed ! 

Divine  thou  art !    Death  of  death's  power  is  shorn, 
Nor  fearest  thou  life's  changes  ever  more  ; 

1  write  almost  with  envy,  here  forlorn. 


Fortune  and  Time,  which  bring  us  grief  so  sure 
With  joy  uncertain,  claim  no  more  their  right ; 
Their  fickle  changes  enter  not  your  door. 


There  is  no  cloud  to  dim  your  shining  light, 
No  chance  nor  need  to  bind  your  onward  way. 
No  time  to  urge  you  with  its  rapid  flight. 


144  CAPITOLL 

Vostro  splendor  per  notte  non  s'  ammorza, 
Ne  crescie  ma'  per  giorno,  benche  chiaro, 
Sie  quand'  el  sol  fra  no'  il  caldo  rinforza. 

Nel  tuo  morire  el  mie  morire  imparo, 
Padre  mie  caro,  e  nel  pensier  ti  veggio 
Dove  '1  mondo  passar  ne  fa  di  raro. 

Non  e,  com'  alcun  crede,  morte  il  peggio 
A  chi  1'  ultimo  di  trasciende  al  primo, 
Per  grazia,  eterno  appresso  al  divin  seggio ; 

Dove,  Die  grazia,  ti  prossummo  e  stimo, 
E  spero  di  veder,  se  '1  freddo  core 
Mie  ragion  traggie  dal  terrestre  limo. 

E  se  tra  1  padre  e  '1  figlio  ottimo  am  ore 
Crescie  nel  ciel,  cresciendo  ogni  virtute, 


TRIPLETS.  145 

Your  splendor  changes  not  by  night  nor  day,  — 
Though  dark  the  one,  the  other  heavenly  clear,  — 
Nor  when  the  sun  sends  down  its  warmer  ray. 

By  thine  own  death,  0  father  ever  dear, 
I  learn  to  die,  and  see  thee  in  my  thought, 
Where  the  world  rarely  lets  us  linger  near. 

Think  not,  like  some,  death  only  evil  wrought 
To  one  whom  Grace  to  God's  own  seat  has  led, 
And  from  the  last  day  to  the  first  has  brought ; 

Where,  thanks  to  God,  thou  art,  my  soul  has  said, 
And  hopes  to  meet  thee  if  my  own  cold  heart 
By  reason  rises  from  its  earthly  bed. 

And  if  'twixt  son  and  father  Love's  best  art 
Grows  yet  in  heaven,  as  every  virtue  grows  — 

E.  D.  C. 


10 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


The  Statue  of  Night.  —  About  the  year  1521  Michel- 
angelo was  engaged  on  the  sculptures  of  the  Medicean 
Chapel.  This  labor  lasted  for  many  years,  which  were  times 
of  great  political  trouble  in  his  beloved  city.  This  cause 
filled  his  mind  with  profound  melancholy,  which  he  has 
expressed  in  the  beautiful  Statue  of  Night.  One  morning 
the  verses  in  the  text  were  found  attached  to  this  statue. 
Vasari  says  their  authorship  was  unknown,  but  it  was  after- 
wards learned  that  they  were  written  by  Giovanni  da  Carlo 
Strozzi.  Michelangelo's  answer  shows  how  deeply  they 
touched  him. 

Epigram  IV.  —  "  Eemembering  that  May,  which  is  so 
beautiful  a  month,  gives  us  no  fruits,  he  seems  desirous  of 
admonishing  us  to  seek  in  life  something  more  substantial 
than  pleasures."  —  Guasti. 

Epigram  V.  —  Guasti  refers  this  to  Dante's  sonnet 
"Amore  e  cor  gentil  son  una  cosa."  The  readers  of  the 
"  Dial "  will  be  reminded  of  Mrs.  Hooper's  beautiful  lines :  — 

"  I  slept,  and  dreamed  that  life  was  Beauty  ; 
I  woke,  and  found  that  life  was  Duty." 

Epitaphs.  —  We  know  little  else  of  the  young  man 
whose  premature  death  inspired  these  beautiful  poems  of 
grief,  which  express  rather  the  varied  emotions  which  his 
own  sorrows  had  called  up  in  the  poet's  heart  than  those 
peculiar  to  an  individual  loss.     He  evidently  designed  a 


150  NOTES. 

monument  for  the  wonderful  youth,  but  I  cannot  learn  that 
it  was  ever  executed.  These  epitaphs  were  sent  to  Luigi 
del  Riccio,  and  are  often  accompanied  by  a  brief  explana- 
tory note,  sometimes  intimating  that  the  poems  are  in  re- 
turn for  gifts.  Once  he  writes  :  "  I  did  not  wish  to  send  it 
to  you,  because' it  is  a  very  stupid  thing;  but  the  trouts  and 
truffle  would  compel  Heaven  itself.  I  commend  myself  to 
you."  And  again :  "  If  you  do  not  wish  these,  do  not  send 
me  anything  more."  And  again  :  "  These  are  for  the  trout; 
but  if  they  do  not  please  you,  do  not  pickle  any  more  with- 
out pepper." 

MADRIGALS. 

Madrigal  III.  —  This  madrigal  was  much  changed  by 
the  nephew,  and  Southey's  rendering  is  hardly  more  than  a 
paraphrase  of  the  latter's  version.  A  translation  of  Guasti's 
prose  version  is  here  subjoined  :  — 

"  That  which  contents  the  multitude  is  not  always  so  highly  valued 
and  precious  in  the  world  that  there  may  not  be  some  one  who  frequently 
finds  that  bitter  which  to  many  is  sweet.  Good  taste  —  that  is,  right  feel- 
ing —  is  so  rare  that  at  times  one  is  compelled  to  pander  to  the  desires  of 
the  crowd,  while  within  he  is  pleased  with  himself  alone.  And  even  I, 
while  yielding  to  the  desires  of  the  multitude,  constantly  learn  to  know 
better  the  inner  idea  of  the  beautiful,  unseen  by  that  crowd  without, 
which  saddens  my  soul  and  does  not  hear  its  groans.  The  world  is  blind, 
and  aids  most  with  its  honors  and  praises  him  toward  whom  it  is  most 
chary  of  them  ;  like  a  whip  which,  in  admonishing,  makes  us  smart." 

Madrigal  IV.  —  This  translation  of  Harford's  is  not 
literal ;  but  it  so  well  preserves  the  spirit  of  the  original, 
and  is  so  old  a  favorite,  that  I  cannot  attempt  to  make  a 
better  one. 

Madrigal  V.  —  The  last  six  lines  of  this  madrigal  were 
so  much  changed  by  the  nephew  as  to  destroy  the  force  of 
the  thought.     A  literal  translation  of  Guasti  would  be, — 

"  That  love  may  undeceive  me,  and  piety  the  truth  may  write, 
That  the  soul  freed  from  itself 


NOTES.  151 

May  not  turn  to  its  old  errors 

During  the  rest  of  life,  and  may  live  less  blind, 

I  ask  of  you,  high  and  divine  lady, 

To  know  if  in  heaven  has  less  esteem 

The  humble  sinner  than  the  proud  well-doer. 

Madrigal  VI.  —  This  translation  is  neither  literal  nor 
very  poetic ;  but  the  poem  is  so  interesting  for  its  reference 
to  Vittoria  Colonna  that  it  must  not  be  omitted. 

Madrigal  VII.  —  This  madrigal  gives  his  whole  phi- 
losophy of  Art  and  Beauty.  The  impulse  is  always  from 
above,  not  from  earth. 

Madrigal  VIII.  —  The  last  line  is  not  true  to  either 
version  ;  but  in  so  playful  an  effusion  some  license  may  be 
pardoned  to  the  translator. 

Madrigal  XII.  —  This  very  beautiful  madrigal  is  diffi- 
cult to  translate.  I  have  never  forgotten  a  striking  version 
of  the  fourth  line  which  I  once  heard  from  Dr.  Bartol,  — 

"  The  more  the  marble  wastes,  the  more  the  statue  grows." 

Madrigal  XV.  —  Taylor  has  not  given  the  force  of  the 
last  word  "  stenta,"  "  suffers." 

Madrigal  XVIII.  —  The  rhythm  of  this  madrigal  is 
spoiled  by  the  nephew,  who  has  lengthened  the  lines.  A 
truer  translation  is  desirable,  but  it  is  too  important  to  be 
omitted. 

Madrigal  XXII. —This  madrigal  is  somewhat  obscure, 
as  even  Guasti  acknowledges ;  but  it  is  characteristic,  and 
the  rather  free  measure  gives  its  spirit.  The  "face  and 
eyes  and  flowing  hair  "  possibly  apply  to  the  same  person 
referred  to  in  Sonnet  XX. 

Madrigal  XXV.  —  The  nephew  in  his  version  omitted 
the  exclamation  "  0  dio ! "  and  changed  the  last  three  lines. 
A  literal  rendering  of  the  true  reading  would  be :  — 

What  thing  is  this,  0  love, 
"Which  enters  into  the  heart  by  the  eyes  ; 
►-,     And  if  by  chance  it  overflows 

For  a  little  while,  appears  to  increase  within  ? 


152  NOTES. 

Madrigal  XXXIX.  —  The  nephew's  version  is  slightly 
altered,  but  not  so  much  so  as  to  change  the  sense ;  and  Har- 
ford's last  line  is  not  literally  true.     The  original  reads,  — 

"  Evil  injures  much  more  than  good  aids." 

Madrigal  LIII.  —  The  last  two  lines  are  entirely  an 
addition  of  the  nephew's. 

Madrigal  LXXVIII.  —  This  translation  is  attributed  to 
Southey  by  Harford. 

It  is  perhaps  needless  to  say  that  I  do  not  in  any  case 
indorse  the  doctrine  of  a  poem  by  selecting  it  for  publica- 
tion. I  should  seriously  differ  from  the  great  poet  in  con- 
sidering human  life  an  evil,  and  death  blessed  as  an  escape 
from  it,  if  I  regarded  these  words  as  the  final  conclusions 
of  his  intellect  formulated  into  doctrine.  I  look  upon  them 
as  expressions  of  a  feeling  which  comes  to  most  men  when 
the  burdens  of  life  weigh  heavily,  and  the  imagination  helps 
in  bearing  them  by  picturing  the  joys  of  release.  "  Whom 
the  gods  love,  die  young  "  is  a  phrase  which  often  comes  to 
our  lips,  yet  which  we  do  not  seriously  believe.  But  if  we 
picture  the  lonely  artist,  as  Mr.  Cranch  has  done  in  his 
beautiful  ode,1  — 

44  Whether  in  lonely  nights 
With  Poesy's  delights 

He  cheered  his  solitude, 
In  sculptured  sonnets  wrought 
His  firm  and  graceful  thought, 
Like  marble  altars  in  some  dark  and  mystic  wood,"  — 

and  also  remember  the  prevailing  sentiments  of  the  age, 
the  glowing  and  terrible  prophecies  of  Savonarola,  which 
so  impressed  his  mind,  and  the  misery  of  his  country,  we 
cannot  wonder  that  — 

44  In  all  his  music  the  pathetic  minor 
Our  ears  doth  cross." 

1  Ode  read  at  the  New  England  Women's  Club  on  the  celebration  of 
Michelangelo's  four-hundredth  birthday. 


NOTES.  153 

When  Dr.  T.  W.  Parsons  kindly  set  himself  to  the  task 
of  translating  one  of  these  poems,  he  felt  so  entirely  out 
of  sympathy  with  this  pessimistic  view  of  human  life,  that 
instead  of  translating  any  of  the  poems  literally,  he  has  sent 
me  this  admirable  sonnet,  which  gives  the  answering  chord 
and  completes  the  harmony  of  thought.  I  am  sure  that 
Michelangelo  also  rejoiced  in  victory  after  struggle,  and 
well-earned  rest  from  toil. 


SONNET 

SUGGESTED    BY    A    THOUGHT    OF    M.    ANGELO. 

"  Che  'n  ciel  quel  solo  ha  miglior  sorte 
Ch'  ebbe  al  suo  parto  piu  presso  la  morte." 

The  days  draw  near  to  face  thy  final  hour  ! 
My  Bible  tells  me  so  —  my  friends  repeat  — 
And  every  morn  my  mirror  says  the  same. 

When  old  ambition  tempts,  I  feel  that  power 
Has  parted  from  me.  Love  hath  no  more  heat 
And  the  weak  lyric  shows  the  wasted  flame  ; 

Yet  will  I  not,  with  Buonarroti,  say 
That  they  have  better  fortune  who  die  young ; 
For  souls  that  perish,  having  had  no  past, 

Have  no  remembrance.     Being  but  a  day, 
Life  bears  no  record  to  be  said  or  sung, 
And  baby-limbo  is  their  lot  at  last : 

But  when  hereafter  we  tired  pilgrims  meet, 
Memory  shall  make  for  us  an  everlasting  dower. 

T.  W.  Parsons. 
Beacon  Hill  Place,  October,  1884. 

Madrigal  LXXIX.  —  As  usual,  the  nephew  has  altered 
and  weakened  this  madrigal,  especially  the  last  line,  which 
should  read  :  — 

"  Therefore  he  has  least  fortune  who  dwells  here  longest, 
For  lie  who  lives  least  most  easily  turns  to  Heaven." 


154  NOTES. 

Madrigal  LXXXII.  — The  first  part  of  this  poem  is  a 
little  obscure.  Mrs.  Howe's  version  of  the  third  line  is 
perfectly  true  to  the  original,  although  it  seems  to  make  the 
centre  draw  to  the  weight  instead  of  the  reverse.  That 
Michelangelo  wrote  this  line  advisedly,  is  shown  by  a 
second  reading,  which  only  substitutes  "  e  "  for  "  si,"  with- 
out changing  the  sense.  The  nephew  deliberately  altered  it 
to  read,  "  Si  come  peso  al  centro,"  and  Guasti  translates  it 
into  prose,  "  As  the  centre  draws  to  itself  the  weight ;  "  but 
the  poet  appears  to  have  had  a  less  obvious  figure  in  his 
mind,  possibly  the  scientific  truth  of  the  mutual  effect  of 
centre  and  weight  upon  each  other. 

Madrigal  XCIII.  —  In  the  second  reading  the  seventh 
line  is,  — 

"Negli  ultimi  aniii,  al  tempo  di  partire." 


SONNETS. 

Sonnet  IV.  —  This  and  the  preceding  sonnet,  not  here 
given,  refer  to  the  time  of  Giulio  II.,  for  whom  Michelan- 
gelo decorated  the  Sistine  Chapel.  The  date  is  probably 
1506.  The  hostility  of  this  Pope  to  Florence,  where  he  was 
cordially  hated,  accounts  for  the  feeling  expressed  in  these 
sonnets.  A  brief  resume  of  his  life  and  character  may  be 
found  in  Harford's  Life,  vol.  i.  p.  241. 

Sonnet  V.  —  The  great  work  of  the  painting  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel  was  accomplished  by  Michelangelo  in  about 
twenty  months ;  but  as  he  was  obliged  to  work  in  a  most 
constrained  position,  constantly  looking  upward,  he  suffered 
severely  in  his  health  for  two  years.  His  eyes  had  become 
so  strained  that  he  could  not  read  a  letter  or  look  at  a  draw- 
ing except  by  holding  it  above  his  head. 

Sonnet  XIII.  —  The  following  is  appended  to  this  son- 
net in  Guasti's  edition  :  — 


NOTES.  155 

"  Volevo,  signiora,  prima  che  io  pigliassi  le  cose  die  vostra  signoria  m' 
a  piu  volte  volute  dare,  per  riceverle  manco  indegniamente  che  io  potevo, 
far  qualche  cosa  a  Quella,  di  mia  rnano.  Di  poi,  riconosciuto  e  visto  che 
la  gratia  d'  Iddio  non  si  puo  comperare,  e  che'  1  tenerla  a  disagio  e  pechato 
grandissimo,  dico  mie  colpa,  e  volontieri  decte  cose  accecto  ;  e  quando 
1'  aro,  non  per  avele  in  casa,  ma  per  essere  io  in  casa  loro  mi  parra  essere 
im  paradiso  :  di  che  ne  restero  piu  obrigato,  se  piu  pos-so  essere  di  quel 
ch'  io  sono,  a  vostra  signoria.  L'  aportatore  di  questa  sara  Urbino,  che 
sta  meco  ;  al  quale  vostra  signoria  potra  dire  quando  vuole  ch'  i'  venga  a 
vedere  la  testa  c'  a  promesso  mostranii.  E  a  quella  mi  rachomando.  Ser- 
vidore  di  vostra  signoria  Michelagniolo  Buonarroti." 

•  Sonnet  XV.  —  This  fine  sonnet  was  almost  unchanged 
by  the  nephew,  and  the  translation  is  therefore  Harford's 
best.     See  Appendix. 

Sonnet  XX.  —  See  note  to  Madrigal  XXII. 

Sonnet  XXV.  —  In  the  second  line  "  aspiro  "  in  Guasti's 
reading  is  changed  to  "  miro  "  by  the  nephew. 

Sonnet  XXXII.  —  In  the  fourth  line  I  confess  that  "  fra- 
ternal "  can  only  represent  the  original  thought  in  a  very 
circuitous  way  ;  but  I  am  so  anxious  to  preserve  the  move- 
ment of  the  Italian  given  -by  these  double  endings  that  I 
have  decided  to  let  it  stand.  It  is  a  very  noble  poem.  If 
any  one  wishes  another,  not  to  say  a  better  version,  he  can 
consult  Symonds. 

Sonnets  XLIIL,  XLIV.  —  See  remarks  on  these  poems 
in  the  Introduction. 

Sonnet  LI.  —  The  nephew  has  changed  the  last  lines, 
which  should  read:  — 

fl  For  the  soul  which  has  almost  arrived  at  the  other  shore  protects 
itself  from  thy  arrows  with  more  piteous  darts  ;  for  fire  makes  a  poor  proof 
of  wood  already  burned." 

Sonnet  LVI.  —  Although  the  nephew  made  some  verbal 
changes  in  this  difficult  sonnet,  Mr.  Harford  has  given  the 
thought  very  finely ;  but  I  prefer  Symonds'  rendering. 

Sonnet  LIX.  —  Under  this  sonnet  was  written  the 
following :  ~ 


156  NOTES. 

"  Per  carnovale  par  lecito  far  qualche  pazzia  a  chi  non  va  in  maschera." 
"Questo  non  e  fuoco  da  carnovale,  pero  vel  mando  di  quaresima  ;  e  a 
voi  mi  rachomando.     Vostro  Michelagniolo." 

Sonnet  LXV.  —  Michelangelo's  friendship  for  the  painter 
and  writer  Vasaivis  well  known. ;;  This  note  accompanies 
the  sonnet:  — 

"  Messer  Giorgio,  amico  caro,  voi  direte  ben  ch'  io  sie  vecchio  e  pazzo  a 
voler  far  sonetti ;  ma  perche  molti  dicono  ch'  io  son  rimbambito,  ho  vo- 
luto  far  T  uficio  mio.  Sc.  a  di  19  di  Settembre,  1554.  Vostro  Michel- 
agniolo Buonarroti  in  Roma." 

Sonnet  LXXIII.  —  "  Lacerated  "  is  not  a  pleasant  word, 
but  it  is  a  literal  translation  from  the  nephew. 

Sonnets  LXXXI.,  LXXXIX.  —  Only  the  first  eight 
lines  of  these  two  sonnets  are  by  Michelangelo,  the  nephew 
having  completed  the  sonnet  according  to  his  pleasure.  Oh 
that  Wordsworth  had  possessed  Guasti's  edition ! 

Canzonet.  —  This  is  the  middle  stanza  of  a  canzone  in 
three  verses.  The  nephew  changed  the  sense  of  the  last 
two  lines,  which  should  read :  — 

"  For  the  brief  time  has  become  less, 
Nor  should  I  be  weary  [of  loving]  if  it  were  prolonged." 

Stanza.  —  This  pretty  verse  is  the  first  one  of  an  unfin- 
ished poem  to  his  lady. 

Triplets.  —  The  thought  is  so  condensed  in  this  poem 
that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  crowd  it  into  English  metre. 
No  poem  lets  us  more  fully  into  the  writer's  inmost  soul. 
—  Grimm  has  a  German  translation  of  it  in  his  Life  of 
Michelangelo. 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


1.  The  life  of  Vittoria  Colonna  was  eventful  and  inter- 
esting, and  an  acquaintance  with  it  helps  to  explain  the 
relation  between  her  and  the  great  artist.  Beautiful  and 
accomplished,  she  was  also  conversant  with  political  life 
and  the  great  interests  of  her  times,  and  was  yet  enthusi- 
astically religious.  Early  betrothed  to  the  Marquis  of  Pes- 
cara,  he  became  the  idol  of  her  imagination  and  heart. 
Their  union  lasted  eighteen  years,  although  during  much 
of  the  time  they  were  separated  by  his  absence  on  military 
service.  His  death,  in  1525,  left  the  world  desolate  to  her, 
and  she  devoted  the  remaining  years  of  her  life  mainly  to 
preserving  his  memory  in  the  beautiful  sonnets  addressed 
to  him.  I  add  a  translation  of  one  of  these,  to  enable  my 
readers  to  become  better  acquainted  with  the  friend  so  dear 
to  Michelangelo.  She  died  on  the  15th  of  February,  1547, 
and  her  last  earthly  look  rested  upon  the  face  of  her  great 
friend.  We  cannot  better  express  this  relation  than  in  the 
very  words  of  Vittoria  Colonna  in  a  letter  to  Michelangelo, 
dated  July  20,  1546,  — 

"  Stabile  amicizia  et  legata  in  cristiano  nodo,  securissima  affezione." 

Her  early  home  was  in  the  beautiful  island  of  Ischia,  so 
Lately  devastated  by  earthquakes.  She  left  no  children, 
and  her  adopted  son  died  before  her. 


160  APPENDIX. 

VITTORIA  COLONNA  TO  HER  HUSBAND, 

MARQUIS    DE    PESCARA. 

SONNET  XLI. 

"  Parrai  che  '1  sol  non  porga  il  lume  usato." 

Methinks  the  sun  sheds  not  its  wonted  light 

To  us  on  earth  ;  nor  sister  moon  on  high, 

Planet,  nor  wandering  star  now  greets  my  eye, 
Shedding  fair  beams  to  beautify  the  night. 
I  see  no  heart  with  courage  for  its  shield. 

Bright  glory  's  vanished,  and  true  honor  fled, 

And  every  noble  virtue  with  him  dead. 
There  lives  no  leaf  on  tree,  or  flower  in  field. 
Dark  is  the  air,  turbid  the  water's  hue  ; 

Fire  does  not  warm,  nor  cool  the  freshening  wind : 
All  things  have  lost  their  dear  familiar  way 

Since  my  fair  sun  no  more  on  earth  I  find. 
All  Nature's  holy  order  goes  astray, 

Or  grief  conceals  the  true  one  from  my  mind. 

E.  D.  C. 

2.  Donato  Giannotti  was  a  man  of  the  highest  character, 
who  had  borne  a  noble  part  in  the  Florentine  struggle  for 
freedom.  In  his  Dialogues,  first  published  in  Florence  in 
1859,  an  imaginary  conversation  with  Michelangelo  is  given, 
which  is  of  great  interest.1 

3.  Guasti  tells  us  that  a  writer  in  the  "  Bibliotheque  Uni- 
verselle  de  Geneve  "  asserts  that  Louisa  de'  Medici  was  the 
early  love  of  Michelangelo,  and  that  to  her  are  addressed  his 
amorous  complaints.  She  was  a  daughter  of  Lorenzo  il  Mag- 
nifico,  and  was  betrothed  to  one  of  the  sons  of  Pierfranco  de' 
Medici,  but  died  unmarried  in  1494,  in  her  seventeenth  year. 
The  French  writer  tries  to  explain  the  madrigals  as  refer- 
ring to  this  affection  and  to  the  painful  separation  of  the 
lovers  by  difference  of  rank,  etc.    A  few  phrases  of  descrip- 

1  See  Guasti's  Discorso,  p.  26  ;  Gotti's  Life  of  Michelangelo,  vol.  i.  p.  249. 


APPENDIX.  161 

tion,  as  "her  blond  hair,"  are  supposed  to  apply  to  her. 
Guasti  rightly  treats  this  as  pure  romance,  for  which  there 
is  no  historic  foundation.1 

4.   Stanzas  in  Praise  of  Rustic  Life. 

(Imperfect.) 

This  unfinished  poem  has  never  been  fully  translated, 
and  it  offers  great  difficulties  even  to  Italians.  It  contains 
many  noble  verses,  and  is  worthy  of  study.  I  have  trans- 
lated the  first  stanza  rather  freely  thus  :  — 

"  New  pleasure,  and  the  best  delight, 
To  see  the  wild  goats  on  the  rock 
Climbing,  to  feed,  from  height  to  height ; 
To  hear  the  herdsman  call  his  flock, 
Venting  in  song  his  feelings  bright, 
While  his  fair  maid  with  scornful  air 
Attends  the  pigs,  her  pride  and  care." 

In  William  Hazlitt's  edition  of  Duppa's  "  Life  of  Michel- 
angelo," we  find  a  translation  of  eight  stanzas  describing 
the  peace  and  contentment  of  the  shepherd's  lot.  I  give 
the  last  one,  although  it  does  not  fully  represent  the  force 
of  the  original,  which  is  somewhat  lost  by  alterations  of 
the  nephew. 

"If  the  cow  calved,  and  if  the  yearling  grew, 

Enough  for  all  his  wishes  fortune  yields. 
He  honors  God,  and  fears  and  loves  him  too  ; 

His  prayers  are  for  his  flocks  and  herds  and  fields : 
The  doubt,  the  How,  the  Why,  that  fearful  crew, 

Disturb  not  him  whom  his  low  station  shields  ; 
And,  favored  for  his  simple  truth  by  Heaven, 
The  little  that  he  humbly  asks  is  given." 

One  is  reminded  by  these  stanzas  of  Burns's  "Cotter's 
Saturday  Night,"  although  the  poems  differ  as  much  in  gen- 
eral character  as  the  age  and  circumstances  of  the  writers. 

1  Discorso,  p.  17. 
11 


162  APPENDIX. 

The  closing  verse  completes  the  picture  of  the  strange 
allegorical  figures  introduced.  I  translate  from  Guasti's 
prose  explanation  :  — 

"Seven  of  their  sons  go  through  the  world  to  make  war,  and  to  spread 
snares  only  for  the  good  ;  and  each  of  them  has  a  thousand  limbs.  They 
open  and  shut  hell  to  chase  there  the  many  mortals  of  whom  they  make  a 
prey,  since  with  their  many  limbs  they  close  the  way,  as  ivy  makes  a  wall 
'twixt  rock  and  rock." 

5.  Tomrnaso  dei  Cavalieri  was  the  best  beloved  of  all  the 
young  people  who  visited  Michelangelo's  house,  and  helped 
to  cheer  his  advancing  age.  He  was  young,  rich,  of  noble 
birth  and  great  beauty.  For  him  were  made  the  beauti- 
iul  drawings  of  Cleopatra  and  of  Ganymede  ;  and  Michel- 
angelo painted  his  portrait,  life-size.  He  was  also  a  friend 
of  Vittoria  Colonna. 

6.  Sonnet  XV.  —  This  remarkable  sonnet  has  been  more 
often  translated  than  any  other.  I  have  given  Harford's 
admirable  version  in  the  text ;  but  I  cannot  resist  quoting 
the  bold,  clear  translation  of  our  own  Emerson,  which  does 
equal  justice  to  it. 

Never  did  sculptor's  dream  unfold 

A  form  which  marble  doth  not  hold 

In  its  white  block  ;  yet  it  therein  shall  find 

Only  the  hand  secure  and  bold 

Which  still  obeys  the  mind. 

So  hide  in  thee,  thou  heavenly  dame, 

The  ill  I  shun,  the  good  I  claim  ; 

I,  alas  !  not  well  alive, 

Miss  the  aim  whereto  T  strive. 

Not  love,  nor  beauty's  pride, 

Nor  fortune,  nor  thy  coldness  can  I  chide, 

If  whilst  within  thy  heart  abide 

Both  death  and  pity,  my  unequal  skill 

Fails  of  the  life,  but  draws  the  death  and  ill. 

I  hoped  to  find  some  translations  by  Dr.  T.  W.  Parsons, 
who  has  shown  such  masterly  skill  and  thorough  knowl- 
edge in  his  work  on  Dante;  but  these  four  lines  are  all  that 


APPENDIX.  163 

he  has  given  us.  They  are  the  opening  lines  of  a  poem 
addressed  to  a  lady  who  sent  him  Michelangelo's  sonnets. 
They  are  as  perfect  a  translation  as  we  can  imagine  of  this 
beautiful  stanza. 

"  No  master  artist  e'er  imagines  aught 

That  Jies  not  hid,  awaiting  mortal  gaze, 

In  the  rough  marble,  if  but  fully  wrought 

By  one  whose  hand  his  intellect  obeys." 

I  cannot  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  referring  also  to 
the  beautiful  poem  of  Dr.  Parsons  for  the  celebration  of 
Michelangelo's  birthday  by  the  New  England  Women's 
Club  at  Boston,  in  which  he  hails  "  the  four-souled  man." 


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